the boy stands apart, tho
pressed by the crowd.
this is not his parade.
he never got a parade,
even tho he saved the world.
the clowns and jugglers,
dancers on stilts;
the old soldiers, survivors
of foreign wars;
the beauties seated on floats;
it all makes the boy cry,
alone in the world,
an escapee from the destruction
of his world---
a king there, almost
a pauper here, tho alive
and filled w/ potential.
the boy longs to join the parade
his lonely wander
w/ a satchel of seeds ache-ing
for germination weighing
his shoulder, an off-balance
gait,
already the boy has left
the parade, tho still pressed by
the crowd. his tears---
[clowns make him cry]
open a doorway and
he struggles thru the weeds
alert for plants that are medicine
one of the Beauties sees
the boy w/ an absent look
tears unwiped course his cheeks
the boy sees her seeing him
and, proud, hiding his shame,
offers her a weak smile,---
for a moment her automated
wave is for him,
for a moment it is
his parade. then she is gone.
Tears and laughter mingle
in his throat. he turns
and the crowd parts for him.
before his disappearance into
himself
he blesses the soldiers, beauties
and clowns.
alone again, searching among
the weeds for magick.
