The wide-eyed boy,
holds a split star
in the black holes
of his eyes.
Shy. Unsmiling.
Gazing out from the old frame
into the new world.
His small round hands
in the pocket of his shorts.
Dark hair brittle as a shoe-brush.
Flat-toed Bata shoes shiny.
Socks folded around neat-ankles.
Standing stiff like a pillar,
before the rushing stream
of his many rolling senses,
the muddy meetings
of rising waters
in the chaotic city.
Time in slow drops.
His mother is not with him
to lament the theme of change
that hums in the shadows
at the end of his boredom.
Bright light winces off the walls
disturbing his safety.
He never suspects his picture
will not fit daintily
into the spectrum
of his family album.
A pattern is broken.
It is his last photo,
but the camera keeps clicking
every year without him
in the dark lens.