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.
