Pretty much ever.

It's not the sound of Pan flutes
that freaks me out.
It's that tone, imperative.
Hurt and caught
off guard, surprised in a way
that is so embarrassing.
Tiny face a wildfire,
eyes swimming with heartbreak.
Soupy moments won't flop.
Tacky seconds of pained straining.
Panic rises in the fumbling,
frantic fingers jingle change,
keys, mints, whatever, pen.

It's not being alone
in a room with you
that screams out possible
outcomes. In comes tides of
tiny sweaters, knitted hats and mittens.
Kittens, while cute as buttons, still
make mincemeat of mutton
with their tiny claws of razor-like
bone. Quiet. Quiet.
I'm on the phone
to your Grandma.

That isn't the scary part
either. Never did it for me. Yep.
But the night air
on summer-heated blacktop,
bent to lift bumpers,
pushing and grunting
a parked car down suburban byways
to block some guy's driveway.
Either that or get punched out,
Left out and crapped on again.
And the summer wind across the sandy shadows.
Hills like delicate music for a boy
whose soul longs to leave
for other places, other people.
Gets only ulcers and night frights,
sleep walks and bruises from bullies
for being naïve.
Self-righteous martyr.

That was a little unnerving,
to be certain,
but that fear came earlier.
Ears crowded with panicky heartbeats,
muffled by oil and wadding.
Then door thrown open
from a night so different.
Before slurred words,
hot waves of breathy alcohol.
Trapped and frustrated,
pretend I'm sleeping.
His hands doing something
more than making fists.
Forgot why he made them
but since they're in the room
might as well break 'em.

Confused on my own high,
head blurring medicines.
Soon they're upon me.
My small child's body.
Shoved like a secret.
Timeless transfer completed.
Relief still evasive