Why the rags?
Why are they always before my eyes,
White, stained with feces, semen and blood?
Why the blue one,
why did the boy choose the only blue rag?
Why after more than forty years can I still see them?
Feel their crustiness
And smell their pungent muskiness?

Why God? WHY!?!

Why must each detail of that night live on,
Sometimes in a fog,
Sometimes not,
But always there where I can see?
Why when I look away,
Refusing to see,
Do I hear the boy's relentless sobbing?
And when I hear his cries,
Why are his tears
Always in my eyes?

Yes, life goes on
I have good days,
Days when I can see the sun,
Days that are truly fine,
Days spent on the lake
Kayaking with my wife.

But why must it all be built
On a foundation of filthy rags?
Does he see,
Feel and smell
Those loathsome scraps of cloth
When he is with her?

Why can't he love her
Just letting her love him?
Why must the taxi guy
Always be there
With his heap of filthy rags,
Intruding like a jealous ex?

If a man would get his life on track, he must first go back to the place where it was derailed.