PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Little Willy Green, a lone dandelion puff on the valley floor,

sat on a graying park bench, beneath a willow tree.

Though we’ve never met, I did consider him

as he sat no more than ten feet from me a few years ago.

There was something about him that tore my heart in two.

His eyes gave him away.

Looking at him, I knew

the boys taunted him and

the girls understood him. The dark circles under his red eyes told me he was

broken, a heart shattered, shrouded in shredded

clothing.

As I gazed at him, I imagined him sitting with a companion
at a place — not here.

He had peace there — his mind was still.

I knew peace was rare for him, considering the storm cloud his mother must be,

absentee father (who I’m sure is absentee) and that motley mob
flanked by his math teacher and campus counselor, who I am sure
must chide him about his not knowing how to throw a football. 

He did not remember their slurs
which stabbed him like a whip of bronze nails,
choked him like a noose,
and cut him like a razor blade.

He forgot it all

at that moment—in that place—as he sat on the edge of a gray sofa,
his large hands holding a stitch in his thin side. His bluish-green eyes were

barely visible through his

brimming tears. I don’t think he had ever felt such freedom.

Someone understood, and so did he,

wiping his tear-streaked face with the back of his soiled, canary yellow sleeve.

He regained his composure while

his companion recalled the punch line to his next joke.