Childhood Friends

There was a kid I learned to steer clear of,
whose house smelled like a wet concussion on
bare concrete, and
meals I hoped to never taste.
He stood shivering in a wet bathing suit, too close,
fascinated by the wrong thing.

He invites me up to his mess, and
I huddle against the horror of
improperly used toys.
He grins a soup of pleasure at
painted mom who greets him like sunshine,
even though he just took a shit in the azaleas.

Just to tease, he said.
A vile experiment, I thought.

His desire for friendship is suspect, and
gives me more power than I want.
I want nothing to do with him, because
knowing him seems like a sinister discovery,
something that should have stayed buried.

How do I get out of this unrequited accord?
Chuck a rock at him, then front him
one shot. When he hits me,
I will run to my mother’s sunshine:
the one who means it.