You often forget your book bag
and I’m too slow to realize
there are reasons.

But afterschool the other day
you shyly asked me if I ever watched you play
basketball.

I smiled and said I did
through the window by my desk
you run, pass and drive
harder than you fidget in here
where I asked again for you to write
about the events that made up your life.

You looked distracted and what’s more,
yelled, what the fuck was I asking you for?

Why should you tell anyone
what happened to you?
Face one more someone
unsure what to do,
telling you,
“Write about it,”
(I know, I do it too).

But here’s why,
you’re smarter than me
you’ve already seen
more than I’ll ever see,
and all I know about are these
dusty things, called books
where people escape
when they can’t face another
insufficient look,
or the moment they notice
the holes beneath our noses
are holes that can’t make much
but murmurs
and they’re mad, you’re mad, I’m mad
we’re yelling,
at spaces between faces on the train
at absence, and what comes
in between
people not saying what they feel or mean
leaving nothing but time
pen and page
to write down the things
you want to see change
and fear never do.

What can I tell you?
I watch you play
and learn
there must be something
worth saying.