Thin little Féliz hung his head

And kicked with a torn sandal at the dirt.

“What is it you want, my boy”, I said . . .

Féliz just stared at the button on his shirt.


Féliz had come for miles that day,

Féliz with eyes like an orphaned fawn.

But I was busy. I turned away.

And when I turned back to Féliz. . . he was gone.