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A Boy Named X

The art-loving boy called X (for Xavier)

nine years old, glasses, wheatstraw hair,

came by again and again to chat

speaking each time of his father but

where was the mother I wanted to know

(dreaded to know) of whom no word

was ever spoken.  One couldn’t escape

noticing his liking to chat with a

motherly old soul and perfect stranger.

One had to wonder.  One hoped

for the best noting that he did seem

a happy boy, a self-directed boy,

affable, good head on two shoulders.

One hoped.  One wanted so much already

for the likable, sweet, art-loving nine years old

boy who went by the name of X.

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