To give credit where credit is due, this is actually my sister's poem. But she needed a crit, so I told her I'd see what some other people thought of it, because she's considering submitting it to a school publication.
Stephen
Stephen Maybe it’s just me.
He sliced paper in half with a knife,
Drew cartoons of zombies with life-
less heads in their hands. Dust in the eye.
When I left at five, he never said goodbye.
Maybe it’s just me.
I’d sit at his kitchen table, sticky and wet,
laugh when he smiled, help with his set
of math problems. More than $5, too much to ask?
Watching a twelve-year-old, too hard a task?
When I left at five, he never said goodbye.
Maybe it’s just me.
To do today: Wake from a restless night,
Bank deposit, Mother’s dinner, write
A note to his parents, a notice of one week.
Watch him eat lunch from a can.
Hear his brother call him “Freak.”
When I left at five, he never said goodbye.
Maybe it’s just me…maybe that’s why.
There is a story behind this, but I think I should just leave it unsaid, since the readers of the school publication wouldn't know the context of it either.
