The boy has a slouch that shows thought.
His indifference, considered.
He has his own language
and it all says fuck you
in hushed tones, minnow grunts.
A hull of conversation.
Peace comes to us all, boy.
In Mason jars
on basement shelves.
So many of us happy in this world.
Others see only hairline cracks in the foundation
behind glass, tomatoes and beans.
We wish you peace, boy, and soon.