Lucas

He comes with
a reputation,
a troublemaker,
bad for the neighborhood,
an unsteadying influence on my son.
The boy comes with baggage,
something doesn't click,
no,
he's not quite all there.
In the afternoon's I can hear him
talking with imaginary friends
on the street.
I can hear him,
and no one else.
But when he's not visible,
I hear all sorts of things,
I woman's voice
at the top of her lungs,
a man,
a young man,
25, 30, maybe.
His brusque voice full of anger,
frustration.
Something's missing,
no,
something just doesn't "click."
"That boy's an idiot"
my father in law says.
Last week,
he pulled his bike,
right in front of my car,
I nearly killed him.
But I saw his eyes.
I did not see fear,
only death,
a cold grey,
as he chased my car.
I wondered about the boy,
with the simple blond hair.
"What is your name?"
I asked him.
"Lucas."
"I'm Mark, pleased to meet you. How old are you?"
"I'm eleven."
I wonder if anyone had ever spoken to him
like a person before,
I do not know, this is a sad,
sad boy.
And for what reason?
What goes on in his home,
I will not speculate.
I can hear it from across the street,
I can feel it,
from the neglect I had
at that age.
I can.