Aubade for the (Already!) Man

Oh, the weeping mother
who does not dare. 
 
The plane could fall.
The beer in his bag explode
 
and set off a chain reaction with his phone
hooking up to radioactivity in the cloud.
 
A girl could prick at the heart
buried under his new chest hair.
 
He could smile.
 
The weeping mother lets the alarm screech.
Or—she can't take that call, the phone is dead.
 
She considers all the dust his.
She pulls a poem this long
 
over her head and does not sleep.
The weeping mother has things to do,
 
nothing as important as weeping.
An ocean's available, nearly two decades of it. 
 
She survives 
by swimming forward 
 
into the dawn 
he left behind, with his shoes.