His face was beautiful, Brian was his name. Meet him,
I would, in the wee hours of a morning, when sleep
was a promise on the lips of a liar and the darkness was a friend
to us both. Talk, we would. Laugh, we would. I didn’t know his story
I didn’t know his history, I only knew he was a companion
to the winds down from the canyon. Those bedeviled cracks
in the pavement, the occasional curb like a wall… vexed, he would pause,
as poignant as a stutter on the tongue, as welcomed
as a careless match in the forest. He would mutter
but no one at all would listen.
The boy down by the creek, with his crooked nose
and his blue eyes and pale, drawn cheeks. It was cold
and he’d been resting there, no blanket, no pillow, no embrace.
I brought him to my apartment, gave him soup to warm
his heart and a thermal shirt for his soul. I didn’t know his story,
I didn’t know his history. All I knew was that my dog didn’t bark
and my heart melted, in a feeble attempt to prevent it from breaking.
I will never know, did he find a home where fists would not alter
his appearance? Is he alive now? Did I make
any kind of difference at all?
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019