Jack at sixteen

Sometimes
he just stands there.
Just stands,

back hunched,
head drooping,
milky eyes unfocused.

Sans eyes,
sans teeth –
sans everything?

Whether he’s lost,
unseeing,
wondering where he’s at;

or whether
he’s following a fox
into the undergrowth

while you, helpless,
call his name
until he bursts from bushes

happy:
that he cannot tell you.
That is for you to decide.


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