IN THE PRECINCT
On the smooth cold tiles (non-slip, simulated marble)
Between Dixon's and Smith's
A child lies screaming,
His red face creased, wet with misery,
Legs kicking out, back arched,
His fists beat the earth
Beneath the smooth cold tiles.
Oblivious of censure and his mother's embarrassment
He screams his frustration at the world's deceit
No one understands him
Or his need to beat the ground and scream
NO!!
I wish I could do that.
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