I love the children with the dirty faces and uncombed hair
I was that child, with uncombed hair
playing amongst the other children.
I was that child, reaching up to finger
the oddities, being pushed away by older brothers.
I was that child, who stares at my hirsute, smiling face
and is unsure.
I was that child, being pulled away by a crazy woman, a
crazy mother, yelling out and wanting to play more.
I was that child with the pigtails bouncing up and down
in opposition to her shoulders.
I was that child, with the dirty face sipping the cola
greedily, with pocketfuls of toys and secret playthings.
I was that child, lonely in the corner with no one to lead
or follow, no one to hold hands with.
I was that child, yelling louder and bolder at wins;
fisting against the air the losses.
I was that child, there, holding daddy’s hand and
lightly crying, there, racing to the bathrooms, there,
asking for more quarters, there, eating the garbage they
called food, there, wondering and wondering.
I was that child.