Be good, she said, then patted his Friday
and sent him out. Light rain stopped falling. Gray
skies blessed the city as streetlight clichéd off.
He breathed in traffic, exhaled a sad old tune
whose words escaped his cloudy mind. New runes
appeared in puddles spelling sacrifice
in old languages. He climbed the hill. Enough.
He prayed let air be bright. Make weather nice.
Now, marked with his mother's name and soft hand,
his Friday spells words he can't understand.
He writes each out, plain and firm as if time
depends on them. Each letter, each small sound
is cared for by his hand, eye. His soft mouth.
One day—not a Friday—a woman sees
this page and knows his urgent hope to bind
the world as one. To hang it in a tree.