Sunday poetry

Pietà 


I hunted heaven
for him.


No dice.


Too uppity,
it was. Not enough 


music, or dark dirt.


I begged the earth empty
of him. Death


believes in us whether
we believe


or not. For a long while
I watch the sound


of a boy bouncing a ball 
down the block


take its time
to reach me. Father,


find me when
you want. I’ll wait.


~ Kevin Young