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.