There is a child on the stoop
He doesn’t play, he doesn’t move
He doesn’t flee, he doesn’t shoo
He doesn’t see anything wrong with you
Because he’s just a child on a stoop
Your stoop, their stoop – it never matters to him
He’ll never bring his secondhand array of toys
He’ll never run to play with any of the other boys
But he’ll always catch when you make that frustrated noise
Because he knows someone hasn’t failed to see him
Fire hydrant explosion, but he makes no motion
Kids gather around to dance beneath each merciful drop
Rain consumes them completely, turning taut clothing to slop
And yet, there is no notion the boy will take a chance to hop
From the three concrete steps to the spewing ocean
Then darkness sets in like a blanket from above
Tired eyes adjust, mothers cry for their child’s return
The children dissipate, saying their goodbyes in turn
Their cheeks and noses so red and raw from where the sun burned
But last to leave is the one no one claims to love
Twilight descends; starry skies draw wanderers’ attentions
The stoop grows cold, no warmth left to tell he’s been
His legs rattle with youth, his bones crackle and spin
He’ll say not a word, not a single word to his kin
But he’ll be back tomorrow, so you always mention
