Jeremy trembles on the ground,
his body needs the subtle warmth of a security blanket,
not the screeching fire of his scraped hand.
He sits next to a broken scooter,
angry at the asphalt that turned
from road to ruiner.
Stalled cars bark at Jeremy to move.
“My hand,” the boy replies,
watching his tears evaporate on his new worst enemy.
The cars honk louder, their drivers are rushing
to get home
to do nothing.
Jeremy fixates on his hand. He feels it pulsating and stinging
without any clue about how to describe those feelings.
He doesn’t hear the honks and doesn’t know he should get up and move,
that he’s blocking the normal flow of traffic,
the daily routine.
“My hand,” is the best he’s got.