It happens frequently.
Understanding arrives quite tardily,
only in the last few days.
I know the beaten dog
who stares back,
but he looks younger
than I know I am.
Through the shattered pieces of broken egos,
through the desolate features
of a man who is a no-good human being,
through the frizzled, frazzled, frayed
and burnt wires of the most broken spirit,
I see the young boy, cute with slight vigor,
minor, snapped twigs, grappling with joy,
but I am ignoring the truth,
playing with the barren wind chimes,
hiding underneath the chaotic, steely fences.
There is no child.
There is an ignoramus,
too stupid to know
how broken he really is.