First Aid

 

First Aid

Timmy is skinny as a skink
from a dysfunctional school,
a sad father who beats him for having asthma,
but for two weeks Timmy worships me,
rookie counselor of Cabin 8.
First time from inner city
he meets crawdads face to face.

Timmy follows me chattering with delight
at the rituals of summer camp
so he is right there when Jamyl tumbles
like a cartwheel from a buckeye
onto his wrist creating a new joint sideways
like cracking a drumstick.
“Timmy!” I shout. “Run for the nurse!”

Timmy knows pain as a bird knows a cage.
Speaks not a word through raucous
dining hall dinner until I question him
alone and he whimpers “I didn’t help.
I didn’t know how. I didn’t do anything.”

Thank you, Timmy for running to fetch the nurse
who arrived so fast. It was just what we needed.
And you could take a class in first aid, Timmy,
you could learn what to do. Who knows —
you could be a doctor.

Doc Tim. Yes. He follows me
chattering with new purpose
the remainder of camp. Then
he busses home to his old man
and I can only hope.
.....

First published in Freshwater