My son has been abducted by aliens, or thrown into a ditch
by the side of the road, or sold into the sex trade on Aurora,
or lies passed out from wine coolers under a trampoline,
or is still with his friends and has lost track of time.
He will miss the Mariners game, which may not be a big deal
since they will probably lose again. He will miss
the toasted onion bagel with cream cheese that I made for him
six hours ago when I expected to pick him up.
Description, Officer? He is five-foot-two, 105 pounds,
brown hair brown eyes white T-shirt tan cargo pants,
carrying five dollars and a backpack full of electronics. He rules my heart.
When I find him I will be so relieved to see him
that I will probably scream and curse. He will do the same.
Then we will embrace each other and go home, both of us changed forever
by the time warp we moved through. And the aliens, nodding sagely
in their starship, will comment on the incomprehensible nature of
earthling mother love.