I’m the mother of the man
living at the park off 57th Avenue,
a man who found religion and wants to pray
with those he meets on the street,
those who buy five-dollar hits
of fentanyl and contemplate suicide
like he once did. I’m the mother
of a man who carries a bag
of oranges from the 24-hour WinCo,
where he walks to wash his face,
a man who sleeps upright on a cement bench
beneath a ramada, eyes closed, head
drooped forward. I’m the mother
of a man I hear breathe in the backseat,
nodded off next to his backpack
and jug of water as I look out
the windshield at traffic lights,
pigeons on lampposts, clouds—
but he’s not there; he’s back at the park,
head bowed, peeling an orange
at a concrete table in the shade.