Wounded Boy

“Get a job!” the adolescent shouted from the dented Chevy

To the stumbling fellow with brown bag in his hand.

Who knows what causes one to say such things,

Or stumble in such a way,

But the answer lies deeper

Than what can be seen or heard.

Was it a painful childhood refrain,

Or insurmountable yardstick,

Used to measure and beat

The boy to his knees,

Carving a hole

Through which life’s winds blow

Like a dentist locating a cavity?

What happened to the childhood dance,

Where wonder was his partner,

Where trees swayed,

Fireflies swirled,

And parents hugged?

As the light turns green,

The truck speeds on,

Leaving disdain’s dust behind.

The stumbler takes a curb

shakes his head, and sighs:

 “What a wounded boy.”