Whitman Revisited

I hear America singing, and this is her song…

There is a girl, ten or twelve years of age
Already alone in this world
She sits in her school and she eats lunch alone
Only a little girl
But she’s too weird to be cool

I hear America singing, and this is her song.

He’s fourteen years old and he lives with a stranger
And that stranger’s wife
He doesn’t talk to his friends
Wonders how this should end
And wishes for a better life

I hear America singing—

She’s young and she’s fat and she thinks that means ugly
Her friends aren’t her friends, they berate her
“I bet you couldn’t—“
She wants to die.
“You couldn’t even kill yourself.”
Luckily, she doesn’t.
She’s one of the lucky ones.

I hear America singing—

She’s old and she’s trapped here, drugged up all the time
Her family thinks she’s forgotten them
And he’s keeping her away, holding her hostage
For her own money…
But there are sober moments, and she assures he gets nothing.
They find the real will in a shoe, months after her death.

I hear America singing, and this is my song—

She writes to escape them, and suddenly she’s good…
He finds real friends, and a family, and the stranger moves away…
She’s saved, she remembers, and she’ll help…
And the court finds him guilty…

I hear America singing, and these are her songs…

And every song speaks true.

an: Every story mentioned is true. First-hand accounts.