The Boy And The Mural Poem by Scott J. Shepard

The longhand words etched,
metallic in color
lined themselves across vertical concrete,
faces tilted,
as if the letters stood upon shoulders of giants.

Those words following,
followed him home every afternoon
on his way from the marketplace on Main;
his head nestled, scrunched against his rib cage,
shuffling through the streets
one small step, the words of giants close behind.

We've seen the drawings,
scribbled across the walls.
Some murals, odes to streets we walked;
those artists who withdrew the brush
for a chance to express
what's trapped inside their beating hearts.

And these, the boy had passed,
the jurisdiction of a wall
the artist heart,
elusive and in need of protection.

I've wondered if those words were ever at risk of any rain.
If the thunder kept those walls bare for a day,
The apartment's in between,
if a child were to hold the sun's rays
A lamp, none too heavy to lift a second day.

At first, I thought to bring the rain,
but that was no good and not in my control
Then I thought, the power of an artist's hand
An ode suited for the pad of this page

The mural, sound, adorned by a window,
A homeless man that passes on the regular,
his shopping cart embellished with aluminum cans.
The young artist follows,
his head folded, bowed away.