I stamp my sons
on skins exposed,
like electric wires sipping
puddles, with kisses.

Fold them to creases,
burritos of questions,
in envelope of education
secured by saliva.

We go postal.
Corn-mazed by System
that sorts ’em and ports ’em
(unless they lose ’em).

Their minds are pigeons
tied by messages dictating
destinations. Winds muddle
their course and a little girl
finds your gun in the banyan
of your church so shoots them
into my backyard.