Of The Child

There are the eyes
always searching
for the child who
is never seen
again.

When I was young
nobody ever locked their doors at night

now-
America loves a serial killer.

At 3 a.m. when the streets
are wandered only by the lonely,
the drunk, the dead and the disorderly,
malignant moonshadows
color thoughts darkly.

There are the eyes
of the child in all of us,
wanting to close tight but
always seeing
someone's lost innocence
for which there is no
absolution.

Only death brings closure,
and even that is not for certain.

And me,
I am waiting
for a trace
of some small god.

Dec. 20,1999/Mar. 20.2000