He threads on…
He threads on with his feet so tiny
You’d think he tip toes.
Conditions are cold;
Clouds collude like all black scrum;
Rain begins to fall.
He wears a big hole…
He wears a big hole
With patches of wool,
He calls it a jersey but i promise
If you saw it you would disagree.
It reveals a totally torn T-shirt
That’s not as white as it used to be.
Inquire about his age,
Go head, inquire about his age
And he’ll widely spread his palm;
On the other hand
He’ll pop out his thumb;
Continue to take his small steps
On a wet surface
While his biggest toe
Peeps through his unpolished shoe,
Touching the ground.
Yet all he worries about
Is protecting his books,
So he ties a knot
On his yellow checkers plastic bag…
A visit from a vivid vision of his parents:
Perished in an overloaded,
Now they reside in the heavens.
Now life seem like a puzzle of gloom,
But seeds grow
Through the harshness
Of a seal’d ground:
See how beautiful flowers bloom.