Mick,
Not Michael, Murphy, Irish with each wholehearted
cell,
Likes people.
They entertain, he amusedly claims,
but here, new school, new people, less certain.
He wears his grin like leprechaun gold,
Tossing it among lucky passersby.
Likes the shade of the sky as darkness edges in,
Thanksgiving, family of five,
Bowling, painting friends with rubber bullets,
bleeding rainbows.
He likes the peace of inactivity in hot showers,
Each imperfection of his glowing family.
He likes sliding across the slick, untainted ice,
Not the time a foreign limb crashed down,
Followed by darkness, ten brutal days alone with his
throbbing head,
Memory clean but pain constant.
Head healed, returned to the searing light,
Graces people once more with a crooked smile, warm
against the ice,
Sullivan.
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