Keep your pockets to your hands.
Off of the smooth, coconut skin
of that woman
who is defenseless, shields down,
almost like the movie you watched
about that man in the black helmet,
who can’t quite breathe,
who should have been taken for
child support for his son,
who started off good, like you, and
who just needed guidance to stay
on the right path.
That is what I’m doing for you,
what no one did
for the man in the black helmet.
Because unlike you, he,
the man in the black helmet,
could keep his hands in his pockets.
Pockets that carry lint, your allowance money,
my car keys, the cell phone that I pay for.
Pockets that carry things
that can be taken away if you don’t
keep your pockets to your hands.
Pockets you won’t see for 3 to 5 years,
replaced with orange scrubs and a
matching shirt.
Pockets that could have saved you if
you felt yourself instead of that
woman with the coconut skin.
Please,
keep your pockets to your hands.
If you don’t I can’t save you.
“I am your father”, but I cannot save you.
Please son,
Keep your pockets to your hands.

by. Philip G. Steverson