Gone

There are boots in the dark

behind him in the night

like the stone cold end

to a brave, stupid flight

The boy runs quick

as only a boy can.

This little boy

still thinks he’s a man.

There’s a toy in his fingers

black like his skin

full of little round bullets

made of hollow, ugly tin.

There’s a crime far behind him,

a mother’s “What have you done?”

Tomorrow she will know

she has lost her only son.

Little boys dressed like men,

they think they cannot die.

The bullet leaves the chamber too late

for them to realize it’s a lie.