Pablo said he was born an April Fool's joke,
called his dead mom, April, a whore and a drug addict,
who gives a damn? he'd say.
The train rumbled into the station,
roaring and kicking up dust like an enraged bull.

Pablo was just 18, he took chances I didn't like,
like when he stood in the middle of the road,
as the semi-truck got closer, so close its driver
stood on the horn ready to knock Pablo down,
then the truck slipped past, the driver flipping the bird
and Pablo flashing a peace sign.

“April Fool's,” he say. “I'm April's Fool.”
We adopted him when his mom overdosed
when he was just 4.
“My mom was a whore and a drug ...”
and I stopped him, “We all love you.”

Pablo built walls of silence and pain
he kept hidden,
like the dirty magazines in his closet.
“Why do you take chances like that,” I asked.
“Because that's when I feel most alive.”

The train trundled into the station at 20 villainous
miles an hour,
“Screw it, my life is shit, like my mom's,”
and then he jumped in front of the train.
His smile slipped across his face like a traitor,
and his lips mouthed silently, “I'm April's Fool.”

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