The Waver
If we ever called them retarded, and we probably did,
It would have been in a hushed voice, confronted
We’d say little or nothing, they were the otherness
Around us, sitting in the back row, stringing beads
Never reading, never writing, one did the blackboards
After class, I sometimes envied them, especially during
Math class, their simple tasks, their very easy moods
Their ability to sit and fit someone else’s plan for them
But, this isn’t about all of them, just the one we called
The waver, he’d come out to the corner of North and
North Willard every afternoon and stand there waving
Sometimes smiling, sometimes blank faced, to the cars
Passing by, he never waved to us, just hanging around
The corner store, the harmless street gang he ignored
Mid-afternoon, dozens of cars went by and he’d wave
Some waved back, if they weren’t alone they’d say
Something to the person with them, some would laugh
He was the waver waving, whenever we wave it is
Either a greeting or a farewell, but to him the task
Was about the moment, a greeting of sorts, or a call
For attention, here I am, look at me, you can’t ignore
Me, I have a role in your life, a part to play, a task
I do so well they call me by it, I am the waver waving
Waving hello, waving goodbye, always a presence
After a while an old woman, we assumed was his mother
Would come for him, touch him on the sleeve and say
Something to him, and they’d slowly walk up the street
Home, his day done, his tasks complete for yet another day.