Boy on the Corner in Tournament Armor

The boy on the corner’s attracting
attention. Large shirt hung off balance,
low slung sexually suggestive slacks,
large feet encased in basketball shoes,
all selected to reinforce
the statement—
I am unyielding.
He’s armored as well as a
puff and slash mercenary
at Maximillian’s Court,
steel armor that flowed
in affected interlocking ripples
meant to attract maids
intimidate competitors,
covering a boy with no greater goal
than to be appreciated for
the unique specimen he thinks he is.
He stopped playing doge ball just a while ago.
He hunches over a cell phone, texting
his mother about groceries he needs to pick up or
his dad about washing the car,
waiting to be seen by the select,
waiting to be taken seriously by the ones with cars
and places to go, people to get involved with.
The boy on the corner slaps the phone shut,
shoves it deep into a pocket, slowly,
and looks around for the direction to go.
Does he even know he’s headed west into the sunset?

Rosemary Moeller