Poster Boy
We stopped walking along the cracked sidewalks of our city.
I saw the first twitch of his jaw,
Watched as his face went slack,
Eyes wide with horror behind them.
"I knew him."
Barely a whisper, but loud enough to carry past the ringing in my ears.
The weather-worn paper flapping before us displayed the boy's wide grin,
Nearly mocked us.
A vice-like grip around my heart squeezed the breath out of my lungs.
His face, frozen, still staring openly – heart wrenchingly – at the Missing poster
Taped to the side of the bus stop.
It became a cycle.
I watched him;
He watched the picture of the young boy's face.
The ink on the beaten paper showed
The boy's infectious grin turning sinister,
Warping into malice and hate, accusing almost.
I watched my friend some more.
I watched how his eyes misted over,
How his fists shook, tight against his side.
I watched him close his mouth, open it, close it again.
His grief morphed into something else,
Something darker than mourning.
The tremor in his fists racking up his body, turning his knuckles white and his face red,
His eyes glinted with something like determination, or promise, or violence.
"This is getting out of hand,"
My voice soft, careful as I addressed him.
Apparently, the stack of bodies piling up was growing too tall,
Too many smiling faces taking the forms of these old, weathered papers.