Joe was a boy of 12, big for his age,
they sure did make boys tough back then.
His head was as large as a basketball,
greasy hair parted on the left,
swooping down, covering one eye.
A scar on his lip made him look mean
and deranged.
Oh yeah, the jury was split on old Joe,
right down the middle.
Half the class adored him, the other half, hated or feared him.
At recess, he made it a point to choose one of the boys
that didn’t sing his praise,
or he just didn’t like,
and beat the snot out of them.
I never understood his selection method,
nor did anyone else.
There was no way to know when your time was up
and you had to square with Joe.
You needed eyes in the back of your head,
and when you saw him,
you ran.
On one sweltering Chicago day, in classroom 107
at Public School,
we learned that Joe died
while up at the lake with his family,
swept away by a strong current and drowned.
The future gone for this boy.
They say, when they found him,
his body swollen and his lips blue.
There were sniffles and sobs,
but hard to tell if they were sadness
or joy.
Sitting at my desk, staring at the door,
I let out a sigh of relief.
I don’t think anyone heard me,
just like they couldn’t hear the desperate cries from Joe.
12 years old and relieved of duty.
I remember looking out the window at the playground, knowing
that while God didn’t listen to Joe’s prayers,
he definitely heard mine.
BlackDayz 