Mustard Seed (Part 1)

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.