Running boy

I go running through shanty cities,

with grass stained bare feet like old boot leather.

I have no fear of glass or stones in my heels

or laughing children all rag and bones.

Tin shacks lean and creak like old cripples where

inside men play mah-jong in opium hazed,

red toothed raucous back-room games.

And when I return to my tower at night

to the dusk chorus of crickets and frogs,

I ask my father why it is that those

with the least so often smile the most.

He laughs, and kisses me goodnight and says

something about the wisdom of children.