by Deborah J. Brasket
He stood there, a youth from poorer quarters,
Eyes wide and wary, flecked with glints uncertain.
His face was full and rich and filled my doorway;
Beyond–the grass, the street–they filled my eyes.
Words that stumbled forward fell to cement.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help,” I calmly lied.
I saw his eyes dull, his face turn narrow
I closed the door, my heart, my hand to him.
I watched him as he walked to other doorways,
To plead his practiced words to polished “no’s”.