FATHER:

Suit and tie fit for a boy, Little Lord Fauntleroy. A Gentleman’s farm for a gentleman’s son. Circling the real boys, I breathe in.

MOTHER:

It’s decided. We take a trip. Without-
You. You. You. That’s right.

Might - do us some good.
We left you with a young woman we thought we understood.

FATHER:

Tractors and gasoline fill my lungs.
I stand within a crowded pen.
Sheep shift and heave like barges of wool. Backing and stacking along unforgiving walls.

MOTHER:

The imprisonment of responsibility Deranged us.
We let go.
We dropped the ball.

We received a call. He was so young. We flew home, Straight away!

1 hour and a day.

FATHER:

Shiny black circles shrink in liquid white moons, On angled faces, like Picasso’s skewed nudes. They hand me a tool that fits iron shoes.
Are you Hephaestus? Or some bloody fool.

MOTHER:

But I don’t know how -
I don’t know how long he - You, were alone.

TOGETHER:
21.

I was 21.

(‘Oh what have I done’)

21.
I was 21.
(‘Oh what have I done’) 21.
I was 21.
(‘Oh what have I done’) 21.
I was 21.
(‘Oh what have I done’) 21.
I was 21.
(‘Oh what have I done’)