Crazy Kid

I wandered the streets
whenever I could
looking
all that I knew
my momma was gone
wasn’t ever coming back
and everybody hated me
I was listening in
honing my homing signals
I even got close
to where she was
a couple of times
but no connection.
I was three, four
picking fights
with bigger kids
windmilling fists
into their soft bellies
they’d put a wire litter basket
over me
holding me prisoner
or they’d see me coming
‘its that crazy kid’
and run away.
The even older kids
would let me be
their girls would comb my hair
and I’d feel that
as love
we’d build volcanoes
in the sand pit
great hollowed out piles of sand
filled with trash
set it on fire
there’s a metaphor right there.

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