Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters from Newsies belong to Disney and not to me.
A/N: A little free verse poem inspired by Benjamin Davenport's (Button's) line about not being "last in line for the tub." I'm usually not a big fan of free verse (it can be done well, I just personally struggle with it), but I couldn't manage to make this work in metered format, so here it is.
This takes place on Christmas Eve, some years before the strike.
Last and Least
.
Last in line like always,
He shrugs and settles down
Into the tepid tub water,
Bucket and dipper beside him
And a cake of soft brown soap
Already marred by several sets of fingers.
.
There's a fire blazing in the hearth
That warms his back even as he shivers,
Chilled behind the ragged curtain.
Cold. It is so cold.
The biting air is cold,
And the bath is getting colder.
.
He washes himself quickly,
Scrubs away what dirt he can
With the slimy soap and water
That probably lost its clarity
Four of five bathers ago,
When the others had their turns.
.
He shivers again, steps out,
Dries off and dresses,
Feet on the cold hard floor.
He towels his hair near-dry,
Then buttons up his threadbare shirt
And pushes the ragged drape aside.
.
No one notices; no one's waiting
For their turn in the tub, not anymore.
By the crackling fire sit the eldest two,
Discussing business.
He approaches and is shooed away.
("Can't you see we's busy?")
.
Three more sit hunched over at the table,
Rapt and focused,
Cards in hand.
He draws near to join them
And is quickly waved away.
("No room!")
.
He shrugs it off, retreats,
Too small, too scrawny
To shoulder his way in.
He's used to it; coming and going
Unnoticed and unseen,
The youngest and the weakest of them all.
.
...well, not exactly true.
A baby's mewling cry is heard as if on cue,
And he creeps quietly
Towards the darkened room,
Peeks through the slightly-opened door
And listens.
.
There it is again, the plaintive sound.
He hears his mother softly hum,
Cuddling the infant in her arms.
And then she looks and sees him at the door.
He quickly starts to leave -
But then he hears her calling ("Ben, come in.")
.
In he shuffles.
.
The room is dim and cold,
But his mother's voice is warm.
She beckons again, and he obeys,
Coming to sit beside her
And the little one -
He of wrinkled, grasping fingers,
Eyes blinking, barely open,
Mouth stretched into a tiny yawn,
All fragile-soft,
And so, so small...
.
Time stalls
And slows
In that darkened room.
The church bells faintly chime,
Heralding the advent-day -
Another Child, born in darkness
Wrapped in frailty,
Near-unnoticed and
Unseen
And so, so very small…
(not too great to come as last
and least).
.
And in that quiet moment
there descends
a soft
and gentle peace.