Bewildered beaten four year old boy
Sits in a doorway,
And beneath the muck, the facial makeup,
He raises a flicker of a smile.
You see, when the wind plays a tune
That your hair can dance to,
You feel it.
And so did the boy.
The bruising and abusing took a tranquil path,
While he involuntary had this
Flicker of a smile.
A plastic bag hopped and skipped by,
Cigarette ends ran round in circles,
Weeds in the pavement
Rocked back and forth
Attracting his attention.
Were his feelings
He touched his sore arms and legs,
Then studied his hands.
A strange thought occurred to this four year old.
These will be old manís hands,
And when they are,
Will I be able to feel the wind?
Will my hair dance?
Will it raise me a smile?
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