Mother to Son

I would have told you
about the children
playing in the park.

I would have told you
about their pink-fingered guns;
how they would count paces
before turning

To follow, with eyes of gold,
imaginary bullets,
imaginary wounds.

I would have told you
about the sounds their
candy-breathed mouths made,

The "bang," "pow," "kapow"
clicking from their tongues like dominoes.

I would have told you
how they stumbled to the ground.
How, writhing on sand,
They clutched imaginary wounds
with real hands.

I would have told you how they screamed.

I would have told you how they screamed.

But you were gone,
and wouldn't have listened anyway.