Poetry

odd kid

odd kid

the odd kid at the bus stop
drops his backpack in the grass,
sorta with defiance,
but not really, not actually.
do you know him?
he gets quite near my space.
odd comments, odd questions.
where is his mother?
I’m on his side,
but I feel awkward
pretending it’s not awkward
(though I try).
home
we
go,
me and my kid,
and the odd kid
circles the bus stop awhile longer.
friday (or was it monday?),
we saw him on the corner
as we drove by in our car.
he smiled and waved,
sunny like, funny like,
as if we were his people
and he was ours.
or maybe he didn’t, not actually,
but I saw him that way
that day
he being he, not odd at all,
and me
not awkward.

Copyright © 2017 Emily Awes Anderson