I can be
The wounded boy
You can be the mother
But I never get that luxury
Instead, the wound spreads
Like a pool of blood over the bed
And never stops

The middle class
Do not mother
Wounded boys
From the gutter

They like to prepare
For themselves
Stone sarcophagi in churches
To rest in for eternity

One day a policeman
Will bring the wounded boy
Into the church
Where you lie
He will clutch
At the stone body and cry
And then be taken away