The Boy

He chose to sit
On the bench by the oak tree
Away from the crowd
The blithering masses chattering like chimps

He reads Kafka and Salinger religiously
Spouts the words like they were his own
Condemns the phonies
Worships the unique

Hates to contradict himself
Keeps his mouth shut
Carries out arguments in his head
He always wins (of course)

Dirty sneakers
A book folded in half
Words lost in the creases
Kept safely in his memory

He says reading is like an waltz
It only ends if you want it to
Gotta let the book lead
Or you might get lost in the pages