The Child

The Child

A child asked me today
"Why aren't you gay?,
Why aren't you smiling?"
Such prying, I say.

I told him about my pain,
And told him of it again,
While he kept asking why,
Well after I made it plain.

I told him I hurt bad,
I even said, "BAD, BAD"
But he kept asking why,
"Yes. But, why are you sad?"

I lied - that I am ill -
He kept pestering me still;
I thought I'll scare him -
He wouldn't leave until!

So, I spun him a ghost story -
Grotesque and very gory;
It ended and he asked, "Mister,
It is just a tale, why be sorry?"

I thought to run or hide behind -
Far from such a prying mind.
Then he said, "I hope I ain't prying",
And just like that, I resigned.

He was a child, I aligned my tale -
Nothing but truth, but, no detail.
He still persisted with his "Why?" -
I hid so much to no avail.

So, I was forced to confess
Adult details of my distress -
Love, loss, heartbreak, grief -
Yet all of it without success.

Even though it was now plain,
And I had said enough to explain,
The innocent child with a smile
Kept inquiring again and again.

Finally, I decided to stay mum,
To refuse such questions dumb.
But how long could I not relent,
Or not recognize my tantrum.

I had to laugh at this comedy -
I was a child, wise was he.
Hadn't I heard? "We're players in a play" -
Why be sad, it is just a story?

And so, let it be known to be true
That I tried but could not rescue -
What a child all alone and armed
With one prying question could do.