2.03.2009

Further proof that there's no God.

There was this kid Matt Davis
who lived a few houses down from me
when I was eight and nine.
He was four years older than I was
and his armpits stunk up his bedroom.
Matt was what they used to call
'a disturbed child', though I'm sure
there's a pretty new term for it now.
I saw my first pornographic magazines
in his filthy little house, and was morbidly confused.
Everyone blamed his ways on the parents
but that wasn't fair either.
Matt was simply Matt, and probably still is.

My mom and I felt bad for him
so we'd invite him over for dinner once in awhile.
I made sure to play with him at least twice a week
even though my other friends wouldn't join us.
I still thought I could save people back then.

When I got a rabbit, he got a rabbit.
Mine lived thirteen years: double
its life expectancy;
his only lasted a month or two
probably due to lack of proper care.
Neither of us were surprised.

Sometimes I think about him late at night.

And then I think about the bastard who let him die
alone in that dirty little cage.

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