the message came after
my child was safe in bed
last seen dashing down the street
without his backpack
no wallet, no jacket, no cell phone
only 13, with bad grades and angst
some childless neighbors referred to him
as “bubble boy” and said he seemed a loner
best known among the younger crowd
as the one with fireworks on 4th of July
into the night men searched with flashlights
under the electric towers, in the ravine
women phoned each other, sighed, spread
the word, listened toward the emptiness
police presence was on
the case, missing child alert
late in the rain his French teacher spied him
on an overpass, wet and tired from a night in a shack
in a thank you message from his dad, relief careened
off his voice into the chicken soup bubbling in my kitchen
