The kid who always stood there like our
little sub divisions oracle, our quest giver.
If he needed to know something a price came.
Where his asthmatic sister was, what time it was,
whatever it was.
We made him take out his glass eye,
and show us it too.
It always made me sad that he would do it
but I was too devastatingly fascinated
each time, to look away.
His house was beautiful in the sun
but when the willow out front
took it into mid day shade,
something sinister crept over it.
His mother always cooked Baklava
which for years I associated every
time I read the word Balaclava,
and thus the food seemed illicit,
As foreign as
that little marble
in his head.