Tell Them For Me

I saw a little boy at a museum once.

The teacher asked him if he had hit the other child.

She wanted to hear him say it.

She wanted the little boy with the ratted pants

And the holey shirt

And the dirty tennis shoes

And the bruises underneath his sleeves

To confess.

 

His face was hot with tears

His throat gurgled into a cry.

 

I watched this

Flooded with memory.

The teacher, unsure of herself,

Wanted the outcast to prove

His predicament.

To admit to his hatred.

His sadness and frustration.

So he did.

 

He read her better

Than she knew herself.

He echoed my life.

 

I whispered to him,

'Yes.

Cry.

Scream. -

Make her wish she didn't exist.

Make her wish the stone walls would fall down over her.

Shout your rage at her.

Roar your guts out and disturb the whispering museum.'

 

'Let them know.

Tell them.

I've grown up

Into complacency.

Tell them of the pain, the torture.

Tell them for me.'

 

Reviews

[Nick Erickson]

"She wanted the little boy with the ratted pants
And the holey shirt
And the dirty tennis shoes
And the bruises underneath his sleeves
To confess."

"The teacher, unsure of herself,
Wanted the outcast to prove
His predicament.
To admit to his hatred.
His sadness and frustration."

This is an excellent poem, one which shows the desire of everyone to point the finger at those different and less fortunate than us. It has to be the one with the holy pants because the boy in the pressed slacks just looks too good to do it.

Well done!!