Concrete Mercy

Once when you were 7 you scraped your knee against the concrete,
It bit wounds into your skin with cold, infectious kisses,
and your mother tended to your tears and scrapes back at your homely nest.

Once when you were 18 you slept fitfully on the concrete,
It became your bed and blanket when no one else would provide,
and your mother felt guilty but your father said it was for the best.

Once when you were 23 you saw the concrete rush to meet you,
It greeted you as an old friend and delivered what none could ever give,
and your mother never got rid of that gaping hole of guilt inside her chest.