Poetry

Brave Boy

A little boy comes to the neighbor next door on Saturday mornings, at first listen you would be tempted to think he is a brat. My old girl and I know differently, and we wait for him with delight.  

Brave Boy 

He comes each Saturday morning

to the neighbor’s house next door,

this brazen boy of wonder.

 

Once the car door opens,

his insistent voice

commands the air.

 

He battles imaginary monsters.

Holding sticks and stones,

in cupped hands.

 

Curtains flutter in the open window,

the old girl’s nose quivers against the screen.

She watches him, breathing him in.

 

He begins happy,

laughing, running, stomping, yelling,

she and I know it will not last long.

 

Old girl whimpers at the window

with knowing,

her brows set in worried frown.

 

A bee sting, a fall, a frustration

His cries will come on cue.

She and I sand, silhouettes in the window,

breathing sighs of relief, when brave boy runs once again.

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