It is 8:19 and the car stops briefly
A boy, 17, eyes grounded his breath
Heavy , uneasy. He is the
stereotypical stranger with hands
In the pockets of his hoodie and
A nervous bounce to his step
His rough shaven demeanor holds
As his right hand grips a cigarette
It is 1:40, the talk wraps up neatly
'Can you move forward please because
some people are waiting in this makeshift lobby'
They move and continue with formalities
And again he requests 'just a couple left'
It is at that moment I glimpse through
Partitions that serve to look good
The boy, I am sure, the latest of the late
Climbing over people to find a space
I am angry.
It is moments like this that hurt me.
His life is unchanged.
We hold opportunities and messages
To relate, but we fail
We take the practical and make it less so
And wonder why these souls reaching out
To this Friday clinic do not practice
When we left them without a script