He’s sixteen, skinny, wearing his Big-10 tee.
For years his mother said the papers were gone,
but then somebody found them, suddenly.
Today’s the day—he’s at the DMV.
He wore her down until she promised him—
her skinny son. In two years, one. Sixteen
in summer wind. (That’s when she carefully
inquired in whereabouts he’d never known,
where someone found some papers, suddenly.)
She turned back to the sink, not answering
any more questions, ever, scrubbing a pan.
Sixteen, flip-flops, wearing his Big-10 tee,
he’s in a winding line at the DMV,
tapping a flimsy stanchion with his hand.
She said his uncle found them, suddenly
(in whereabouts her son will never see)
—faces like his, taxpayers charged a fortune—
He’s sixteen, waiting, wearing his Big-10 tee.
He’s got the papers right here, of course, let’s see.
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