Post more comments
Want a gift card for being active Forum member? Post comments and win $25 gift card every week.
Rules:
PoemHunter.com will be giving away Amazon.com gift cards (worth $75 in total) every week to first three members ($25 each) who participate most in our forum discussions. You just have to post comments on forum pages, poet pages or poem pages anywhere inside PoemHunter.com
Comments posted needs to be in different pages. Posting more than 1 comment on the same page will only be counted once.
Members can not post comments without being logged in.
PoemHunter.com has the right to cancel or edit this contest.
PoemHunter.com has a right to disqualify or ban member(s) without providing any type of reason, belief or proof in regards to any type of illegal activity or fraud.

Zoe Guillory


Little Lost Boy


A puppy- smaller than a man's palm- cries
for its mother. Too young for open eyes.
Its legs barely move. But its hunger hurts.
It crawls in circles on weak paws; whimpers
come out in bursts of fatigue and loneliness.
Passersby barely miss it with heavy feet
as they bustle along on the sidewalk.
A tiny gray puppy. Midnight nose.
Vermilion tongue.
Red from heat. Red from pain.

In the center of the street. A gray mutt.
Abandonment forced by disease and a cart wheel
rolling over her weakened neck.
She lay in the street. Silent.
No one touches her body. Did not even grimace
as the fleas and flies molested her.
Death's grasp is warmer than the streets of New York.
The skyline city that stabs arrogantly at the heavens
with quick-growing factories and the smoke of success.

Aside from the crow- yet crouching at the center
of shuffling immigrants with the unrealized
American Dream,
crushed under the weight of overpopulation-
was a little lost boy, picking at an old scab
on his bare foot with a soot-covered finger.
He was lucky to have all ten. Trapped in The Jungle.
Soft sewage dirt served as his bed.
His mattress and blanket.
He hasn't eaten in days. It goes unnoticed.
His foot is bleeding again, but he lost interest.
So he sprints down the sidewalk. Against traffic.
Dirty looks are passed his way. Newcomers.
They aren't used to being tossed aside like garbage
out the top window of a tenement building. Bruises
and starvation scar the mummified bodies as they drift
down the streets. To and from factories.
No pay.
Not enough to live on, at least.
His stained porceline feet are pummeled with debris.
Broken glass bottles and bolts from factories.
Broken bones from the butchers.
He doesn't stumble. Leaves behind tiny drops
of innocent blood. And moves on. Quickly.
Tiny legs are pumped. A blitzkrieg against the sidewalk.
Blond hair black from smoke. Clingy from sweat.
He halts at the alleyway he calls home. Dark and empty.

Submitted: Sunday, March 31, 2013

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Little Lost Boy by Zoe Guillory )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. Resolution, Alex Adeoye
  2. The way of the champion, Alex Adeoye
  3. Judging A Woman, Randy McClave
  4. Water and Ink, Carly Hagerty
  5. feel IT in the hair,, george albot
  6. Battles above, and Battles below, Lilly Emery
  7. Philosophy, Nassy Fesharaki
  8. GOD'S BLESSINGS, Tom Zart
  9. Emptiness needed, Nalini Chaturvedi
  10. THE CRIMINALIZING OF LAETRILE, Richard Thripp

Poem of the Day

poet George Gordon Byron

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name;
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame;
But the tear that now burns on my cheek may impart
...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]