Poet's Poems

Boy
You weren’t the first I’ve seen
losing some part of yourself
in the park.
It’s common for those
self-assured skeptics,
teenagers they’re called,
to wander in through the tunnel
they’ve marked as their own,
and heap scorn upon the
world they won’t change.

Our generation is skilled
at keeping still, gazing
at cosmos and drinking up
what they will, with
five senses.
But your stillness was beyond
a living still; your chest
put up no shivery fight
against the rain chill.

I read in the paper, later,
that you were an Elliot,
one of a few in this generation
of dying timeless titles.

But as I stood to consider
your night-soaked form,
you were no Elliot to me.
You were a boy,
turning cold,
and I knew you
wouldn’t want any
phone call made that
might save you.