Friday, January 16, 2015



Came in late for school that day
Deshelveled, hungry.
"Want a muffin?"
He lurched forward
and grabbed two,
before resting his head
on the desk.
He was a reject.
By the school system.
By his mother.
Kicked out of school for
hitting a teacher.
He was autistic,
but artistic.
Man, he could draw,
intricate designs
with pointed lines,
angles, and arrows.
Anyone could see he had talent.

"Crips and Bloods."
He claimed to be a Blood,
just like his twin.
I visited his house one time
when he started skipping school,
and once more,
when he was shot dead at 15.
His aunt looked stricken 
but bouyed by my presence.

I felt terrible that the school system
had left this boy behind,
but happy about
the last time he'd come
to class and I'd given him a hug.

In his casket, he looked
dignified, innocent,
in a brown suit and tie
that he could have designed himself.

Left behind
In so many ways.
Not one other teacher attended his funeral.

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