a little boy in back of class
is struggling with each word;
his voice is not a strong one, and
it’s rarely ever heard

no gold stars on his papers, for
his efforts seem but small;
he isn’t anyone to watch,
not anyone at all

the day of graduation comes
and no one in the stands,
calls out his name across the stage,
no cousins, aunts, or grands

he’d never been a scholar, he
was no good with a ball;
he was no one of great regard,
nor anyone at all

he’d watch her from some ways away,
but was no kind of stalker;
he left off all that he might say
as he was not a talker

he never was a special guy,
not handsome, and not tall —
he wasn’t anyone she’d love,
not anyone at all

the night is closing in, and he
his taking his last rest;
he’s found that feeling nothing is
the feeling he likes best

just one more shovel in the dirt,
as rain begins to fall —
as no one mourns where no one lies,
not anyone

at all