narcissus

A boy, struck by his reflection

In the eyes of a bleeding

Dog, leans over his handlebars to

Watch the poor thing die. In every

Mirror, not just this one, he 

Sees his father. And, canine-like

In his longing he comes to

The study door with scraps of

Boyhood, bile, his impossible

adolescent loneliness; nothing a

Father would care for. Tonight, just

Like every night, he will wait

And read the books left out on

The desk. Search for a poem or

A line that tells him what to make

Of it. The pages breathing, shallowly. 

The dying refusing to really die.