Wit and Wisdom

Stryker wrote this poem when he was 9 or 10:

Death

In the
late late late
Evening
A boy leans
Over his gerbil cage
Knowing he should
Have fed them
Much, much, much
Earlier
Silently grieving
Over poor Bobby

The other one
Will now be
All alone with
No one to
Play with

The boy does
Not know
What to do
He leaves the cage

The bowl is still empty

Yesterday, that poem (which is taped to the wall by the Matronly desk) caught Stryker's more mature, wizened eye.

He said: "That's really disturbing but in a sort of smart way."

Matron: "Yes."

Stryker: "I really wrote that?"

Matron: "Yup."

Stryker: "You know your friend? The mom whose son just killed himself?"

Matron: Silence, because speech is snatched from her, just like that.

Stryker: "I bet she feels like that gerbil left behind. Now she has her own choice to make, right?"

Matron: "Right."

Stryker: "I hope she can fill her own bowl again. But it's going to be hard."

Generally, the Matron sees a colloquialism and takes an instant U turn away. But sometimes? From the mouth of babes. . .