Mother Trouble

          Found his head, but not his center.  In the hills,
under a lit arrow,
 all dismemberment is equal,
     and every death is everyone's.
He must have had mother trouble, they say.  Enough
          to follow him home.
Anyone can amputate a bad day, but
          what about those
who are not sorry?  When they keep
coming?
The world delivers
         each of us a story, so it stands
         to reason that
some will get the short
                           end of the stick.

Please come together,
            all in one place,
            he begged, suitcase in his
stuck hand, the day before he
split.   And later, under smog-smeared stars,
he tossed his
             head into the sky
             to be the moon.