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Cornered

If you look closely you can see him there in the corner. He’s sitting behind the empty library shelves next to the steel gray fire door. See him? He’s clutching his legs against his chest. His head is on his knees. He’s shivering. Stay a while longer and you’ll see him lift his head and stare at the shreds of newspapers and magazines in his hands and around his body. His nose is smudged with ink, and black streaks run from the corners of his mouth down his chin.

“It’s my inner sanctum, my holy of holies,” you hear him whisper. “I am the priest here.” While he smiles you wonder about his age. Eight? Twelve? He’s a young boy nonetheless.

The shreds of paper emanating from the boy flow under your feet out to Periodicals. He’s left a paper trail, and you wonder if it was intentional, a cry for help, a sign. But you simply stand there, staring, riding his wake.
“Bananas, three pounds for a dollar,” he blurts out as he stuffs a torn advertisement into his mouth. He didn’t bother to peel the bananas.

“Ah, Grape-Nuts,” he says. “Keeps me going strong all morning long.” This ad he eats also.

“Jiff!” he exclaims. “Mom would be proud.” He continues to eat as you stand horrified.

After some time he looks up at you and asks, “Do you have a Coke? I’m extremely thirsty.”

You take a step backwards then turn and run to your car. When you get home a pot roast greets you at the door. You’re nauseated. You’re going to be sick.

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These pages last updated 2008.02.24 by Ralph J. Murray.				Copyright 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005, 2004, 2003 The Burnt Possum Poets (Dan Easley, Jeremy Frey, Chad Gusler).