Blindness

To others Frank is a little old man

With his face nearly pressed against the page

The others laugh but I do what I can

There is something special in him, my rage

Roars quietly.  They could try on his shoes

A little while but his battle is not

With them and I know this.  Like a recluse

He withdraws from people, he does not let

Them in, so I am his friend, something rare.

Then I turn the pages of his sketch book

With its beautiful ink drawings, his flair

For railroad cars in motion and I look

Through all of it, amazed by the detail.

The other kids start walking to his desk

And I am moved as they form a circle

Around my friend, now quietly impressed.