He was a listless puff
of unwashed blond. You imagine
all unkempt boys after him
to be named Caleb,
to have sullen, rail-thin mothers
with frizzy hair.
When his mother died,
your first grade class
hugged into a tight circle.
You were sorry for thinking him dirty
with his urine spreading all class beside you.
You held his sticky hand.
You wanted to say it right.
You asked him what made her go,
Was it because you wet the bed?