Offspring

Well there we stood in a white washed room—
Facing, our hearts filled with some sad 
Serenity 
Like a veteran of hope.

Well there we stood, him and me—
Judged each others scars, and their severity,
Both with a quiet gaze,
His complexion glassy and slow
And faded,
A dullness that comes not from wisdom
But from the effort it takes to go on.

He knew my mom and my mom knew his dad
And his dad knew me—
No one was a friend but 
Me and this boy, we had an understanding see? 

His breath reeked of smoke
"It's been a while. And I must say,
I never much liked your mother in any way,
But she was fair as she grew,
And you have the same smile— you two.
It's not an insult." 

I told him that yes indeed,
He looked quite like his father,
With a little less greed,
He smiled and said his old chap was a dick,
And hoped he'd be man enough
To have one bigger than his.
I told him that at any rate,
My boobs were flat but at least not fake.
And he chuckled, he knew what I meant.

Through the maryjane smoke
In a white washed room,
We made a deal,
And shook hands through the gloom,
We said that should we end up on the street,
We will die with our pride and our name,
And count it a feet 
To defy the crooked will that ran 
In our veins.
We would shine a little brighter than our folks had
We would fill the holes they dug, we would 
Make a stand
We would stitch the wounds with neatly patches seems
And so we stood rattling off all our dreams—
Like heroes in the making.

That was the last time I saw him—
Before he was shipped off on the lines,
Where a skater punk with nothing but peach fuzz
Was shot between the eyes.
I wasn't at the funeral,
And neither was his old man, 
But I remember well that spark,
And the quiver in his clammy hands,
And the way he bit off every word,
And how he cursed his father,
And gave the world the bird.
And how he believed we were meant 
For something better. 

They tell me that heaven is white,
Like a marble palace
With the fragrance of roses in bloom,
I wonder if he's shaking hands with Jesus
In a white washed room.
"Congratulations" says Jesus "for every thing you would have done,
Congratulations, my foul mouthed, delinquent son"

Sitting in this white room I laugh and shake my head,
Ironic, the deadbeats live on and the good are the dead.