The Ginger Bread

The Ginger Bread long poem

Photo by Tim RT

Cold morning, eleven it was before the Christmas Eve,
I picked my bag and wallet,
To buy some Christmas gifts,
Checklist, bucket list, lists in hand I had,
Smile in heart that reflected in my eyes.
Warm I was feeling on that cold winter day,
Along I took Mama, when my Father planned to listened to Carols all day.
We waited at the bus stop for our two blocks away grocery store.
I saw a little sad eyed boy, wrapped in dirt who sat on that bus stop floor.
I leaned towards him and asked was he all alone?
No voice came back from his side, and from the east side I heard the whistle blow.
My Mama said, girl let’s go.
The bus won’t wait for too long, we have to catch some grocery at the store,
Hasten up, we have to get back and do the rest of the chores.
I left that sad eyed boy, my question left where he sat on that bus stop floor.
At the window seat of that bus, the questions followed me back to the grocery store.
Mind staked back the list I had to fill the bag and especially the wheat flour,.
I planned to baked some ginger bread, that I could not ignore.
Back to home we boarded the bus, where did the boy go?
I kept thinking till the edge of my mind  was to implode.
I tried to calm my mind by beating eggs in the white flour.
Sharing with Papa back home, on way I to Mama told,
I need to find where that sad eyed boy go?
I baked all my ginger bread and for Christmas Eve I stored.
But Christmas heart ours were thinking of the boy on the bus stop floor.
And that early evening I went to the same bus stop once more,
With my ginger bread and some fluffy cloak.
I waited and watched and noticed that sad eyed boy with a girl who might be four.
I felt relieved that feeling I never had felt like before.
I asked him again are you alone? Is she your sister who looks around four?
No voice again came from that side, I pulled out the ginger bread, the fluffy cloak.
I gave them this little treat of Christmas Eve; to the boy and the girl who was may be four.
And on my way back I thought there are so many sad eyed boy and girl who maybe
More or even less than four?
What fate do they have? No good my ginger bread will do neither this fluffy cloak,
I wish this Christmas be to this world some hope.
Where no child for four nor may be little or more, left on these streets or bus stop floors.

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Rebecca Alick

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I'm a constant learner, love watching birds, can spend hours appreciating nature and write canto to describe its amateur photographer and a writer, but still love to sprinkle on the white pages with my thoughts, writing is a catharsis for me.
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