The sweet tomato face annealed to itself
In all directions and pressed sloppily
To the car window.
I sat five years old asking
‘Why does he do that’ and ‘Why is he like that.’
His name was Benji, he was really
35 or 38 years old and he drooled
and was short. I never got
an answer from my father, who
started straight ahead, his foot tapping
nervously on the accelerator pedal,
lips tight and knuckles whitening
on the wheel, ‘pretend he isn’t there’
he told me.
I had my first remembered lesson
In the social graces: The world
Was imperfect, and this was embarrassing.
Then we had to write a response to this poem...so this is what I came up with...
I look at them.
They don’t know it,
But I see them try to not look at me.
I press myself in closer.
Please just acknowledge me.
I am here, and I am human.
Don’t tell yourself you’re any better,
Because I am less than perfect.
Look, sir, at your little boy there.
I, too, am someone’s little boy.
Teach your child that I am here.
I am part of you sir,
And your little boy.
I know I am not like your son,
But I am not very different.
I look different, I am short.
I talk different, but that’s okay.
But, sir, I am human.
If you’d just look at me,
Just look into my eyes, my soul.
You could see this.
You would learn I am not embarrassing,
Or, sir, you can pretend I am not here.
I know it’s easier, I see it everyday.
But, sir, be different, yourself,
Talk to your son.
Don’t just drive off and pretend.
Pretend I am not here.
Pretend I am not a part of you.
Pretend that just as easily,
I could have been your little boy.
