poetry: on the man and his boy

On the Man and His Boy

Who taught you not to look at me?

As you walk over cracks

careful not to break your back

while I uneasily take notice

from the front porch.

Who told you I was

to be feared or so respected?

Who planted those seeds,

roots grown deep?

Who, I wonder,

and did they make you to fear

or make you to hate

never go too near.

Who, I wonder.

Threatening, privileged,

intimidating, [invisible],

strange, different.

I probably stare too much.

But who told you I was?

Who taught you not to look at me?

I won't take what you have.

Neighbors.

I might need you 

one day;

today, just to look.

Who told you I was?

The boy, through you,

is learning me, too.