On West Carson Street, skinny white boys
Slump in front of tattoo parlors
Scratching their arms. Girls 
In short skirts take long pulls
On cigs, stand in groups
Smiling at the men who drive by
Hungry and shy…the realm 
Of the hungry ghosts the Buddha 
Calls it. I don’t know anything 
About anything. But I once saw 
A guy hit another guy
Over the head with a chair
And a cop with thick wrists
Put handcuffs on the brawler
And haul him off. And I saw 
The bartender stomp the broken chair 
And throw the sticks
In a dumpster in the alley 
Where a junkie was shooting 
Heaven in his tattoos. 

My son wasn’t any of these guys.
He was the carpenter in the bedroom
Of an empty house down the street
Nailing a one by four to a two by four
Reinforcing a stud in a wall
That’s seen better days.
His long fingers hold the nails
And he swings the hammer 
From his shoulder for more force.

My son was born blue. His shoulders 
Were so wide, he got caught on the slide
Into the light. Or maybe 
His long dark hair got caught
In the instrument listening
To his heart. Or maybe
He just didn’t want to start
This long difficult walk
To oblivion. But whatever 
The reason, I know he was stuck
In the birth canal and when 
He came into the light
The midwife massaged his chest
Until he gasped. And now, when I look
At his beautiful hands 
Which can drive a four-inch nail
Into a board with two whacks, 
I think of his tiny hands
Twenty-seven years ago, 
Opening and closing
As he took his first breath.

I don’t know anything about Jesus
But I’m happy my son
Doesn’t live on the street anymore.
Walking down Carson Street
I saw a beaten down boy
Begging for spare change,
But it wasn’t my son. I saw 
A young man hand a small bag
Through a darkened car window 
And the slim hand of a woman 
Pass cash to him,
But he wasn’t my son. I don’t know 
Anything about Hell, but I’ve seen
A junkie sitting on the sidewalk
His knees pulled to his chin
Staring at nothing -- just the feet 
Of people walking by,
Trying hard not to look at him.