In a small house on Rumber Lane,
a boy lived with his mother and sister.
This boy spent his time in books
And dreamed of composing lines of glory.
The young poet, standing in the hall with the last shadows of day,
Watched the beetles make their way across the stone floor.
Looking up as the trees turned gold in the last rays,
He saw the neighbour coming home from work.
The neighbour, a big man, carried his bag on his shoulder
And smiled arrogantly at the women passing by.
The young poet watched how the man moved,
With the wide heavy motions he made.
The neighbour’s daughter would meet the boys by the river
On Sunday afternoons
And raise her dress for them.
She wore no underwear.
The young poet was never invited, but
By hiding in the trees
He had seen her reveal herself,
Her body golden, shining like embers.
He had only a few friends, one boy,
With a sour breath, smelled of piss.
This boy would wet himself in class.
Deep down the young poet despised him.
The night grown dark,
The young poet turns to his book and reads.
Writing down words of interest,
And reciting lines that appealed to him.