Twenty

nine

the ball rolled far
far away, into the
edge of the street
and stumbled to the far
far side of the cracked
sidewalk of mr. jones

mr. jones is an old, old
man with yellowed, yellowed
teeth and gnarly, gnarly
knuckles and stubbed, stubbed
toes and wounded, wounded
wrinkled knees

my friends hated him
for what terrified them
made their distaste
boil up to their cheeks
and down to their spines

i never knew mr. jones,
though. he was the boo
radley of our small,
small river town.

go home! you'realoser!
hank shouted over when
i realise what i have done.
i'm not sure if he's just
guising as pretend cool
or pretend leader but he's
a real jerk and real arse
in my juvenile opinion

but then the game is
over, everyone just started
to walk away and into the
doors of their safe, safe
homes to their safe, safe familes.

i never believed in safe
because it's too bland
and plain for my liking so
i found my legs turning
about when i saw a shadow
of an old man dawning over
my tiny little frame

ibelievethisisyours?
mr. jones' deep, throaty voice
resounded throughout the
whole abandoned street

i nodded, my hands shaking
in half nervousness and
half awe. but i wasn't at all
scared of his stance.

lookslikenobodywants toplay
withyounomore.
he just suddenly smiled
a too amiable smile when
i retrieved the ball back
from his rough, rough hands
and his voice echoed, echoed again,

                                           choose your friends

                                           c a r e f u l l y , son.