Adopted Author

Most the time he sat like this:
soft pectorals leaning over paper,
hardened eyes inward and down.

"I have been robbed" he said,
his room no more empty than
his heart as if he owned

something once before.

Counting, counting words
and random specks of dust
like orphans do, always groping

for a ledge, a hold, a family.

The cloth, its threads irreparably
broken, a favorite toy forgotten
beneath his adopted bed

its countless plastic parts
already missing.

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