Rage

It comes rumbling down the street,
a steadily building thunder
A rage with this child’s name on it,
standing before me
Wanting to play with my sons….
wanting respite from the storm…
Not dumb, but full of questions because he wants to know…
Yet always stopped by the rage that follows him around…
KeeeeeWaaaaaaaaaaaaan!!!!!! Errupts in the peaceful air,
interrupting our conversation,
where I try to hide my annoyance,
even as I know his little life is surrounded by
and filled with murderous dins,
and sudden threatening silence.
I feel helpless as I watch him
fly down the street on his scooter,
He does not hesitate as he goes back in;
Yet I hesitate to let him in,
even if it breaks my heart.
It scares me when their rage spills onto their front lawn—
A show we all pretend is not there…
We all watch agape, wondering what to do.
Is it enough to make THE call?
Always seems on the edge…
Helpless; we all feel helpless.
And she never asks for help,
Is it because she thinks we do not care?
And yet, daily a little bit of that rage,
Comes careening down the street and knocks on our door.
with a big, dumb smile on his face
Looking for a friend—with rage dogging his steps.
Always somewhere in the hidden corners
Of my wavering heart, I hear
“let the little children come unto me”
And it throws me into turmoil.