When my son was two year old
I would push him up that road
In creaking rusted toy tricycle.
Rows of apartments stacked by.
Now I am into ailing late fifties.
My son is apartment watchman
Living in womb of falling night
And he is ironing residents flat.
My years have ironed body flat.
With no money for wheelchair
To bribe a hospital’s ward boy,
I reach there in the old tricycle.