no angels // bastille
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Downtown Manhattan.
A boy sits,
against a wall
on 7th street.
He watches passengers
turn to fog
in between yellow
taxis.
A man approaches.
He kneels down
by the boy.
"Alright?" he asks.
The boy blinks,
arms tense,
pulse racing.
"I'm not allowed to talk to strangers."
"My name's Nick," The man says.
He extends his hand
towards the boy. Hesitantly,
he shakes it. The boy's
ebony skin encompassed in
white.
Nick looks
expectantly at
the boy.
"What are you doing
downtown?
Shouldn't you be
in school
or something?"
"Nah," he says. "I like coming here
to ditch."
"Where's your mother?"
The boy blinks. Nick takes a seat
against the wall
as well.
"I don't know."
"Do you need money?"
Defensively, the boy stands up. "I'm not homeless."
"I never said--"
He takes off,
running down
the street.
He pushes past
crowds of tourists
and locals.
He can hear the man
yelling for him,
but it all becomes background noise,
it all blends in
with the traffic.
YOU ARE READING
twelve tracks
Poetry“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche /// (c) mockingjayde 2013 (c) respective artists and musicians.
