Meet the boy standing on the stump
of a tree, (species undisclosed) lopped because
of reasons unknown, on the sidewalk,
towering over his shadow unrolled tenuously
like a policy behind him on the road littered
with mouldy cups, hired ants, jerked breathing-
you cannot find him on a GPS.
That would be delusional.
You can't meet him either. He's a service,
a tangy satisfaction that doesn't want dinner
until he goes back to his house,
plonks his backpack, bats his way to consequence-
rounds up his Kinley heart,
that limpid stare-ahead.