Beneath the blue carpet there’s a stain.
I looked at it once
back when nobody was looking
and the years
had turned the red to brown.
Not far from this spot
all the frames in the room
hold different pictures of the same boy,
some very young.
His mother makes me tea when I visit
and his father shows me drawings
that he’s never allowed to collect dust.
I never know what to say
when I hear the crack in their voices,
so all I do is look at the pictures,
look at the drawings
and touch his parents
with the palm of my hand.