His Story

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


About theminstrelscitadel

In search of courageous souls who aren't afraid to dig a little deeper and have a conversation about all manner of things. Rant, rave, debate, discuss... let's do it!
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