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A sun melting gold dawns on the horizon,
Refracting bloody orange on the cold dew.
The pungent sharpness of the freshly cut lawn
Envelops the boy as he stumbles up the concrete steps.
A squawking gaggle of geese enclose about him,
Clucking voices cloaking the room.
“Jon!” they say, arms open wide.
“Jon, how long it’s been!”
“That’s not my name,” the boy tells them, voice strained.
The gaggle does not listen.
“You look upset today, Jon. What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with Jon?”
The boy heaves a breath, releasing it in a dead smile.
His lips are cemented in lead,
Teeth fashioned of nails.
“You scared us there for a second,” they say,
Beady-eyed stares drilling holes into his mind,
Sifting over each slip he creates.
The boy shifts his weight to the opposite foot,
Sinking his head, eyes slumping.
A goose’s arm shoots out,
Knuckles white as he crushes the boy’s wrist.
He gasps, quietly.
“Oh, Jon,” the geese chorus,
“you can’t be anything different.”