Overheard at the Park

Writing Novena 6/9

Overheard in a park earlier this week.

A young boy picking up wrappers,
a future boy scout walking with
Mom in the park, dutifully gathering
scraps of paper, candy wrappers, napkins,
corn dog sticks, the remains of lunches in the park.

"Don't touch that!" Mom shouts,
and the boy steps back, surprised
by the force of his mother's voice.
A hand on the shoulder, a quickening of the step
and they were gone.

Curiosity forced me out of my near slumber,
and there in the grass was the offending trash.
A condom wrapper, nestled in the grass,
a talisman of love or lust,
planted there like Eve's own apple.

Maybe it wasn't just germs that made mom
afraid, may she wanted delay.
Delay the talk about sex, love, lust.
Delay the condom found crinkled in
a teen boy's wallet.

Postpone the cynicism and naivete of adolescence,
and hold on to her baby boy, halt  the unstoppable
growth of a boy so innocent as to pick up candy wrappers,
in a park. Maybe she sensed these vanishing days. a delicate
age, should not be hastened by a piece of foil.