Every Tuesday,
he walks along the railroad tracks,
picking a small bouquet
of wildflowers
to bring to her…
every Tuesday,
before his shift starts
at the meat packing plant.

Although no one
has actually confirmed it,
he is convinced
that the souls of slaughtered animals
drape him in second skin.
The occasional side-eye and step-around
confirm it.

She alone knew him
when sunshine coursed
through his veins,
electrified his hair,
baptized him the alley god
of supplication and supply.

He offers the bouquet
as if it were heroin.

“What is that?” she asks.

He smells the flowers,
sensing the crawl in his skin.
“Forget-me-nots, mom.”