Tyshon

Tyshon

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.