A Poem I wrote and still like

The Wall

Bobby holds your wrists tight

to keep you next to him, wrenching free

you run but know he'll catch you. You like it,

though you're afraid. Father stands

just inside the back screen door

rubbing his hand over his bald head,

watching for you, wondering

why you're so long coming home from school.

What will you tell him? It can't be smiling—

Bobby held my hands, his eyes are blue,

he likes me, Daddy. It can't be that.

There's some kind of shame in love at age eleven.

You tell it this way, never saying Bobby’s name.

A boy held me hard against a wall, Daddy,

he grabbed my arms, wouldn’t let me go.

It isn’t all a lie. You wish Bobby wouldn't

follow you home. You know Father will yell at him,

frighten him away. You can only hope

Bobby will come back and love you after that, love you

three more years and kiss you by the wall.