Here’s where poems come to die

A child sits alone,
But isn’t really alone,

His mind fires colors and shapes
Into all empty, black spaces
He hears the voice of his best friend, Henry,
They’ve known each other for two minutes

The child knows his story,
How he came from the same place
that the fairytales do.

The child’s heart is open.
The child’s innocence creates
And Henry smiles, his red
hair a strange color with no name.

And they laugh,
The child watches a small horse
Graze in the tall grasses of the prairie
Henry laughs because he’s always been ticklish
Right under his arms.

They whisper about their adventures
How Henry saved the child from
Oblivion.
From the job of constantly pitting peaches

From the centipede as it marched
To a war beat that only Henry and
The child can hear.

Years later, the boy doesn’t know
Henry.  
And he doesn’t know he ever did.
That was beat out of him
After he stole his first pack of chewing gum.
And looked at his first *******.
This is where poems come to die.