Your Poetry Dot Com - A Boy I Knew

Long long ago, I recall a young boy,
this memory of him, miles from joy.
He was always alone, no mom or dad,
my recollection of him, breathtakingly sad.

I watched him live on peanut butter alone,
just a spoon, no bread, in an unfurnished home;
I remember a father, fuzzy then gone,
a drug addled mother days off on her own.

I still hear his screams, “I won’t do it again. I promise I won’t!”
I saw him punched in the face, “You’re damn right, you don’t!”
Nobody called for the kid who fell through the cracks;
I/'/ll never forget the screams, the drunken attacks.

But there came a day, then two, three and four,
when his mother left on a binge, slamming the door,
and that child had nothing, just a warm glass of milk;
he stumbled starving outside, all bruises and filth.

Unknown to him, there were people that care,
he cried in terror, “What if mom comes and I’m not there!?”
but they were so kind, so nice; to him, unheard of,
that first day he discerned an inkling of love.

I learned he became a ward of the court,
and options were open, though of limited sort.
He found people want cute little babies, fresh as new socks,
with no call for children with psyche’s addled and knocked.

And adoption? Oh, my! Not for this boy!
So a step down for him to the foster home ploy.
He went to families working the state that pays by the head,
while social workers didn’t taste the slop he was fed, or note the floor he called bed.

The state supposedly checked, but not once I saw the year he turned eight,
but scared for his life he breathed not a word of the rapes.
Twelve different families took him in for the check and let their church know,
But (hush!) money is money, so “Sure, what the heck?”

One home was shy of a room for the child.
They pointed out back while grabbing his arm,
saying, “You got soft piles of hay, go sleep in the barn!”
Then family vacation arrived, with two weeks out west,
But he wasn’t family; “Food’s there” and they left.

At some point the state must have finally learned,
so off to the Catholics for an orphanage turn;
rulers and welts marked Godless days,
but not children who knew the right thing to say.

Well this kid that I know by then was a wreck,
he was violent, withdrawn; a psychotic mess.
A Doctor was needed! “Boy, we’ll get you to grin!
Open your mouth son, let the Thorazine in”.

I saw him sink into a vacant eyed daze,
and by golly, no trouble with Thorazine three times a day.
At nine years of life he was lifeless to smiles,
while doctors made plans jotting notes in his file.

I learned this poor kid with a Thorazine drool
was proclaimed irremediably lost; a systemic victim, about to be tossed.
Youth asylum graduates don’t earn degrees; “No excitement!, it could lead to strife”,
No, just a bus ride to the big house to be drugged for life.

But miracles happen; with two weeks from the bin,
I heard he was called to the office, “Boy, you’re ship has come in!”
“Miguel, I reckon God works in mysterious ways,
a family wants to adopt you sight unseen in two days”.

Not knowing joy, he just nodded okay;
in a life of nothing but hell, he had nothing to say.
With his new family in a house big as a castle,
he didn’t grasp he was wanted so thick were pain’s tassels.

But little by little by little, a boyish smile took form,
and deep in his heart shined a glimmer, a hope never slimmer dared to be born!
Just love, love; no beatings, no rape, no hunger, no roaches,
just love and acceptance; his heart feeling the healing approaching.

As time turned days into weeks, and weeks into years,
the boy grew to a man hiding well his pain and his fears,
so when I saw him playing, laughing with friends,
I didn’t have a clue; I thought his nightmare an end.

But what did I know? I wasn’t inside, I didn’t feel his pain,
I couldn’t know the damage that thrived in spite of his gains.
The torture of youth, how it twisted the more he pushed back,
but the facade he maintained began cracking at last.

Then I saw bottles littering his room,
all empty like him, his heart echoing gloom;
for he had never let go, didn’t forget nor forgave,
allowing booze as his master, and to drugs he the slave.

But one thing about him, that man loved to read,
his mind was a sponge, books taught him to grieve.
He let go of that feeling when kids think it’s their fault,
at last viewing his life, all the damage he wrought.

He thought he knew love; man, he was sure!
But all he knew were the motions; imitations, not pure.
His adopted family showed him loves gift,
they unwrapped some of the pain, healing some of the rift.

But it took that boy, now a middle-aged man,
to know the true meaning of love, to at last understand.
He discovered love’s not an act, a thing that you do;
love is wanting more for another than wanting for you.

Not just saying, “No, you take the last bite” as he was taught,
but wanting her the rest and the best no matter the cost.
He learned his wife’s day at work means more than TV,
that love, true love, is kindness to others, not about ‘me’.

So many years he pleaded and prayed; misery stayed to a day he gave up on God,
I watched him plowing through life, stomping in anger with every step trod.
But just as love sang in his heart, wisdom prevailed; he did come to see,
God never left him but blessed him through his family,
or, so he told me.

This poem is Copyright ยฉ invierno