There was a boy in our class no one liked.
Not even the teachers.  
Not even the good ones.  

He was a small kid with a chipped front tooth
too big clothes and third generation sneakers
Not even Mrs. Farris could love.

Not even Mrs. Farris,

Who taught music from behind the curtained stage of the cafeteria
wearing pretty clothes and a performance smile
No one could deny.

Not even Chris.

Not even Chris, who moved from his assigned lunch seat
brought fireworks on the field trip
and who said what he wanted
but probably couldn't read.

Chris went out for choir in the fifth grade
Like he had in fourth
when Mrs. Ferris turned him away.

Behind him in line to audition,
I cringed at the notes that creaked
and broke over his soul.

His voice was painful and
might have been carried by stronger singers
in the service of a 10 year-old's redemption.

But not even a fifth grade cafeteria choir
in poster board costumes would
hold a space in the risers for his conversion.

Chris wanted to be good then,
maybe for the last time,
And no one could hear him.