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.