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Poem

A boy in a
blue shirt
tucked in partly, partly out of
    his Chicago Bulls
    basketball shorts,
      eyes half open,
      snot seeping down to his
      agape mouth
      wet with drool
      slowly flowing
      to his chin
      drifts over to greet our group.
He one by  one
      first hugs everyone then
      grasps hands of one then
      grasps another’s then
      begins dazedly
      walking trying
      pulling them away
      to somewhere
                  unknown and              Men and women working 
      they smile
      either blithely or in
      embarrassed
      discomfort                               here pass through
      unsure
      and bemused;
the workers
here must                                      with rags and buckets
guide him                                       with crutches
like this and so is       
he parroting
mechanically this routine?
      – no.
I do not want this to be true. 
      – 
He is aware
of himself, there is
something there
in his                                             faces wet with sweat
foggy
glass expression
      between clumsy affection
      a desire to
      love us to
      pull us along
      with him,
and the inability to express it,
      to understand it.   faces tired
      (Who am I to claim that I do?)
      I want
      to believe
      in this,
      in his
      consciousness,
      that
      his face
      is stuck,
      is paralyzed
      like one under lethal injection
      like one
      experiencing pain but
      unable to
      show it,
            I want this to be true,
            not for this to
            be a routine
            patterned task
            simply occurring
            because
      it’s occurred
            before.

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