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 falling in late fifties.
My son is apartment watchman
Living in womb of fallen night.
Here he irons shirts on bodies.
Years have ironed my body flat.
For wheelchair I have no money
To bribe the hospital ward boy.
I reach hospital in son’s tricycle.