Teeth marks tattoo his fingertips;
crimson droplets transform to real tears
as his fingers are pinched with precision,
dribbling his blood in a deliberate line-up
along cold tile squares.
Perhaps each drop portrays
a peculiar member marching
in his monotonous pervasive parade.
I don”t want to be the spectator
watching my son bang his head to the beat
of a different drummer
against the walls of his world.
Yet, as I peer into his porcelain eyes
pleading for recognition,
I see only my reflection
twirling a baton; upside down
marching in his parade;
backwards