Poetry: Boy Soldier

boy soldier
by: Robert King

Before class starts, John sharpens a pencil,
and fills his box with crayons. Opening
to page one hundred, he complains.
"Math is hard."

At recess he has to stay inside. His
loud voice, his teacher explains. It's so unfair.
How could he be punished
so harshly?

At lunch, the jungle-gym sways under
his weight. A half-eaten tuna sandwich
lays discarded. Animla cracker crumbs
line his face.

Fifth period is French class: method of
torture if there ever was one. The teacher
is kind, but Johnny fails.
The price of his mistakes.

His battle ends at three o'clock.

Yohan's battle just ended too.

It was seven thirty, but he never knew. His
failing grade: shrapnel through the neck. He bleeds
to death in a puddle of mud. The teacher:
an enemy soldier.

His last lunch was some sort of animal, caught
three days ago. The meat left stains on his
face, even after being beaten, and bruised:
a bloody mouth.

Last week he stayed two nights inside a dark
shelter. His punisher was kind, even without a
cause for the punishment. He was allowed
half a bowl of water.

Before his last lesson, Yohan sharpened a knife,
not pencils.
Filled his boxes with bullets and explosives,
not crayons.

There was no textbook.
no rulers
no blackboard
no desk

Just
A soldier
A Gun
An unlucky chance.

Yohan was born to a struggling nation.
Not an ungrateful America.

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Not sure why I decided to put that there. I just thought I'd share it.