He walks


alone,
What makes him hang his head
In desolation?
In defiance?
in defeat?
Worn shorts flapping,
His scrawny frame swallowed,
By oversized attire.
A hand runs through tousled hair,
On-end like the quills of a porcupine.
He slumps along,
Pulling inside himself,
A turtle sliding its head back into its shell.
Rose-red blood blossoms to his cheeks,
Forgotten breakfast crusted on his pursed lips.
The other kids run by, harassing,
Laughing and circling,
Hungry hyenas ready for the kill.
A single tear escapes his downcast eyes,
Lands salty on his tongue.
Why him?