Dad went out
when I went
to see Mom.
He said he was
going to celebrate
some raise or bonus
he and his co-workers got
from Highfield Appliance,
and that he’d be
down at Armando’s
if I needed him,
if anything bad
happened with Mom.

“Just call the bar
if your mother
acts up,” he said.
“I’ll send my buddy Bill
to come get you
and bring you here.”

I told him I’d be fine,
that nothing bad
was going to happen,
that Mom had actually
sounded OK
when I called her,
even strangely sweet
when she said
I could stay overnight
if I wanted.

“Well don’t get
your hopes up,” Dad said.
“I doubt you’re gonna
have some kinda
Hallmark reunion
with your long-lost mother.”

I hadn’t seen Mom
in about a year.
She had gotten a job
and left Dad and me,
hopping around
and living with friends
before she moved
to the fringes of town.

“Sure. Come on
over,” Mom had said.
“We can catch up,
I suppose.”

She went on,
saying that yeah,
she did just
up and leave,
but figured
I’d eventually
see why,
that maybe she was
a little sorry,
but not really
since she had to
look out for herself,
that she never
could’ve been
who she wanted to be
if she’d stay tied down
to a two-bit salesman
who hawked
washers and dryers
and TVs and microwaves
at a crappy store.

“I want to live
my own life—not his,” she said.
“His ship had sailed,
not mine.”

I went to her place
after school on Friday,
riding my bike
along M-43
before turning
at the party store
on Northeast Street.
I pedaled by
a fried chicken place,
the Stardust Lounge,
and graffitied buildings
before I saw
her modular house,
wedged between
a vacant lot
sprouting leaky
corroded barrels
and the entry
to Hampton Court.

“Look who’s here.”
Mom sat on the stoop
and raised a clear bottle
when I hopped off
my three-speed.
She pointed
at a narrow strip
between her house
and a six-foot fence,
the chain-links clogged
with plastic bags and litter
from the trailer park dumpster.

“Put your
bike there,” she said.
“Go on.”

Rolling my Schwinn
across the dry grass,
I saw a sunken gray man
in bib overalls
and a VFW cap,
rocking in a tulip chair
on the trailer park side
of the fence.

“Don’t be scared,” Mom said.
“That’s just Benny.
He’s a big drunk
who can’t see past
the trash in the fence.”