You are a boy with no braces.
You don't talk to the girls and you don't play ball. You stand still and tucked beneath a shadow all your own. You have barely laced shoes who kick up tiny pebbles that have strayed from their concrete whole, and a gray sweater that you so often sport, with soggy eyes and a pumpkin's belly. You and your mother eat macaroni at your coffee table--so tiny--in the kitchen, with a thousand and eight magazine clippings scattered about your apartment's floor. You don't wear glasses, and you cover your dusted hair in a navy blue cap that you'd received 3 Christmas years before. You sit in the fifth grade, the left center of the class, and no one picks on you, and no one calls you names. They do not care who you are, and neither do I.
+ + +