Birth of Rebellion
He was young, small, perhaps malnourished
Looking out from deep set eyes, rimmed with neglect
I could see, he wanted ...
To know why?
To know what? ... I did not know.
I sensed he was trying to form the words
And the questions in his mind
The words did not form on his unwashed face
He just stared.
I wanted to say: I understood
That I remembered, what it was like to be small
Surrounded by huge ‘Grown-ups
Pushed by bullies stronger than me,
always in groups of three and whispered at
by clean starched girls with bright blue eyes
Laughed at or even worse, pitied.
Years later, I saw him again
Now he was taller and tougher looking
His jeans and jacket still reeked of poverty
His eyes deeper set yet, acne skin
and oily pits around his nose.
He didn’t have that same searching stance
Now I could see he no longer cared
Now he was ready to fight
His fingers yellowed by cigarette smoke
His fingernails filled with dirt and grease
As was the collar of his shirt.
Shoelaces broken and then re-tied
with a knot covering the shoes tongue
His own tongue tucked behind thin lips
and decaying teeth.
Many years have since passed
as I happened to see his reflection
In the passing of a store front glass
Except, now I see,
He was and has always been, me.
Copyright © Donn Goodside | Year Posted 2014
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