The Boy With The Windchimes

A bunch of coins

Like wind chimes in his hands,

Hands that should have held

Onto mother's fingers,

Never did learn

That not all pockets have holes in them,

And that not all mothers are in a state of permanent daze,

That there are feelings other than pain.

He never did learn that a bunch of coins

Don't need to alternate between being toys of lifeless stones

And keys to his freedom,

And never did he needed to know

That at age ten

He was to be an adult

When his tiny hands,

Unable to hold much,

Still had to hold onto 

Two of his brothers'.

He was among the countless faces 

That disappear somehow 

Before reaching the fifteenth year,

And yet for years unfailingly

At every red light, he would be there.

Of course one hot noon,

Not that heat ever made him flinch,

He didn't come back.

Come rain or sun

The cold winters of December gone,

The lights changed from green to red

And then to blue

Dark, deepening blue

And then black,

No one ever saw him back.

But who did see him before,

A poor man's boy is no one's boy at all.

His wind chimes have no music of their own.