I met him in the fifth grade, standing
On two crutches. He was little, like me
Maybe that’s what binded us. Or the crutches.
I never did ask him why he needed them
And he could not see mine. I did not know why
He liked me and I did not know why Mike Costa
Did not like me, only that one day after school
Mike tried to pick a fight with me. Donnie stood
Between us, wrested him to the ground. It ended
When Mike realized who he was fighting.
I thanked Donnie as warmly as I could. Despite
That, I did not see Donnie after the fifth grade
Until four years later as freshmen in high school.
I never did ask him what happened to the crutches.
What held him up now seemed to be his use
Of a lot of foul language. I tolerated that
Because I was somewhat stronger now, yet
He knew how much I disliked such profanity.
He seemed to swear more at me than anyone
And when I asked him to stop, he laughed,
Warmly, but it made me cold, as if a fight
Was waiting. I began to walk away, slowly,
He said he was sorry, but something had broken.
Now I look for him inside everyone I meet.
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