two small boys

the sky sure looks religious today,
the boy said to his mother
as she drove the yellow ford pick up
down the narrow band of dirt road
between high corn on both sides.
I can almost see angels he said,
leaning his bony elbow on
the window. can you see what
I see, momma, he said, pushing
up in his seat, craning his skinny
neck out as the car bounced along
towards the church
at the bend of the road where
the field flattened without crop
this season. don't fall out,
she said. we don't need two dead
boys on our hands today, now do we?
she adjusted her sunday crown
of dark blue ribbons and pointed
to her handbag on the floor
where the boy's polished
buster browns almost
touched the rubber mat. hand
me a cigarette, she said.
then pushed the metal lighter
into the dashboard. sit down son
and be still. tuck your shirt in
and say a prayer,
or better yet, sing me a song.
sing me any old song. it'll make
the day seem brighter. so the boy,
in his high pitched voice,
sang a song he learned in school
all the way
to the other boy's funeral.