Concrete Childhood

Went to the city today and what I saw broke my heart.

This boy,

His eyes like orbs

Beautiful as he stares,

Waist level,

In his stroller.

His hands,

Small like mine were

But dirty,

Not from play,

But because of his surroundings.

His company not others like him, 

But his father.

His stories not fairy tales,

But cardboard signs.

No bedtime stories,

Just the bustling of streets,

The sounds of footsteps,

Chatter,

Car horns.

The sounds of those with voices.

The voices that will not speak

To him or

For him, 

Only about him,

Over their afternoon coffee.

Reviews

[Rae]

Wow. That is pretty amazing literature. Like something you would read in libraries. Keep writing!!