Niño...

he stands there
absently shuffling dirty sneakers
draping himself over the cold iron bars rising from concrete
steps in the dusky November haze

i glance at the digits on my cell phone itching
to be sinking into my cushy sofa where i should have been twenty minutes ago
if his mom cared to pick him up at 5:30 like she's supposed to

only one foot in the conversation-my eyes cracked open
brain yawning, i muster a "how was your weekend?"
his usual "boring" in the usual slow stuffy-nosed mumble
does he ever utter two sentences together without a three-second pause?
ugh. i kick my Tims against the ZINGing of the iron rail
tonight is not the night i love children.

now as if rising from the brain-bruising concrete or fishing his
consciousness out of that November haze he offers
that he hates teachers
and cops too
because they locked up his uncle for no reason
had his dad on the ground in cuffs for dealing his cousin for rape but he didn't do nothin' either
and there's a drug war in the projects so they shoved him (myseventhgrader!) to the wall and cuffed him and
when he shoved back the
pig spat in his ear-
i can do whatever the hell
i want 'cause
you're never gonna be nothin' but a
drug pusher.

Andrew. what can i tell you? do your homework?
cops aren't the bad guys? don't shove back next time?
what can i tell you?
NOTHING.
because my world wasn't made for you. makes no sense to you. isn't real for you.
little latino boy of the projects
who's gonna listen to you?