hands clasp, just as
you pass,
keep on, nothing
to see
in chest cavities
of many
swells a cunning
curiosity,
and i’m really no
no different
though i try not
to stare.
a pumpkin
smile,
gent tilts his
head,
as if his turn
in game,
on chipped tooth bench,
lunch clasped
in palm,
cloaked in
trees,
shaded by
leaves,
knows not where
he’s from
or how he’s come
to be..
so infant-eyed
and free.
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