A boy with a long stick whacks the air.
What demon does he strike?
How little it takes to make a child,
set him loose upon the world.
The bruised air makes no reply.
Docile and submissive it stands abuse.
The nine-year-old goes on striking what he can’t have,
what he doesn’t miss since never having.
He’ll grow up, take revenge on women,
perhaps his own child.
No one can tell him to stop whacking.
The uncompromising hand of his father stained to his cheek.