He is so young, he sleeps now, rested.
Two parents stand over him, helpless, alone.
The silence peaks in this ever shrinking room,
which for the next few weeks, becomes his home.
The mother wonders of her fated life, her only son
being left here in this hospital room.
The father can't help but look towards her with
blame,after all, the kid comes from her womb.
The boy, thirteen, doesn't mind the place.
yeah it's cold; it smells sort of too clean.
The answer comes in feelings not words;
at least it's safer than any place else he's been.
The Father, still spinning the arrow of blame,
checks the clock with a resentful sigh.
This kid's no good, bringing knives to school.
Wait till they let him out, he's gonna die!
The Mother, wishing well for her boy, cannot
help but see her husband's rage coming undone.
Better they go, there's some stash in the car.
They'll come back tommorow to visit their son.
She needs a fix, he needs to fix it all.
What of this young boy's basic needs?
They lie lost now with the needs of the other boys
who live alone in hospitals that smells too clean?
Grant that I may not judge my niegbor until I have walked a mile in his moccasians
Native American prayer
[This message has been edited by christies heart (edited 03-20-2000).]