Weeds will be Weeds

Weeds will be Weeds
You didn’t quit throwing rocks
out back by the railroad tracks
until your Momma come home
and you pointed at me.
Just like the last and every time
we got caught on our toes
staring in Big Lucinda’s window
at the grown-up-playing-game.
A week later you find me
catching tadpoles at the trestle
you have a way to do it
But we wade in in our sneakers.
And I hope your red ass stings
like mine does, my best-of-them-all;
We cry: It’s not fair and it’s never fair
For orphans misplaced in the wood.
So that night you slip past the curtains
warm into my bed.
To show me the brand new game
that Momma won’t find out about.