Niño Pinto remembers me.
“Can I hug you?”
“Are you still writing?”
He nods in broken English.
“How do you like high school?”
“Still writing,” he says.
“Still writing.”
A cheap notebook
filled with poems past
never given a second look.
A second meeting almost passed,
reminds me simply that
moments stand still, time moves fast.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 12:21 AM UTC
Niño Pinto remembers me.
“Can I hug you?”
“Are you still writing?”
He nods in broken English.
“How do you like high school?”
“Still writing,” he says.
“Still writing.”
A cheap notebook
filled with poems past
never given a second look.
A second meeting almost passed,
reminds me simply that
moments stand still, time moves fast.
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