A boy I knew, when I was a kid, was as skinny as a handrail. His tattered clothes fell around him like shadows at a funeral and I never saw him in the cafeteria, except on Fridays. He’d bring a sandwich and a raw potato in an oily sack. He’d take his time eating too, as if the executioner waited. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryma
(The Weaver's Song)