Little Lawrence stares at the chair,
The chair where his dad would sit every night,
Where he would tell Lawrence and Henry
Stories of wondrous places and terrible monsters,
Where they would save they day.
That chair stood empty for weeks
Until his mom moved it to the attic.

Lawrence shuffled into the dimly lit church
Head down, up to the polished box.
He could barely see through his tears
Henry sleeping there in his Sunday best,
Swimming in and out of vision.
Stolen from Lawrence by a thief,
Just for the money in his brother’s pocket.

Lawrence pulls his yellowed collar over his nose,
Shrugs his tattered leather coat above his ears,
And saunters down the alley
Hoping to escape the bitter wind.
His beard grows wild, ignored for months.
Greasy hair scraped his bony shoulders.
Holes infest his grimy jeans.

Underdressed for January,
Just another street bum,
Just another successful failure.
Or is he?
Lawrence leans against the alley walls
Secrets caged behind dark, sunken eyes –
The man no one knew.