The Boy Was Too Young

By Liam St. Clair

The meaningless Monday mosied on around, and another day at work gave me but another frown. The door swung open.

A man with a camera hobbled out.

Behind him in the room, a young boy held a child.

The loft of smoke arose from the room like a recent fire put out. The boy was smoking.

My nose curled up tight as the stench of the odor hit me like a punch. The boy was too young.

The boy was too young.

A child on his chest, and smoke in his breath.

The radio as ambiance in the dimly lit room.

The neighbors roared from the hall like a typhoon.

The boy was too young.

Photographers hunting him down.

Taking pictures of him; crowding the young struggling boy. The boy had no smile, no smile and nothing but a frown.

The boy was too young.

The boy was too young, to watch this child, to feed this mouth, to live all alone, all alone down on South.

The boy was too young to live on that street.

Poor men yell and fight. Danger lurks at every corner. The smell of alcohol fills the sidewalks. Trash on the pavement, and a drug stash in the alley. This boy was just too young, to have that child on this street.

With one sharp look I walked away. I left the building, smoke in my lungs, all while thinking, that boy was too young.