In a mass of marching life,
The Yorkie will recognize the Dobie
And sound his rapturous yip, tail valiantly a-wag.

Oblivious to teeming throngs,
The toddler will see another, pushed, carried,
And reach a chubby, pointing hand, staring,
Mouth agape, drooling, eyes wide in amazement,
And parents will gasp, “How cute! She’s found a boyfriend!”

In a soulless penitentiary of lockers and books,
A tortured young man will see another,
Another who doesn’t quite fit,
Whose jeans and scuffed sneakers are a costume,
Whose nonchalance is a choreographed step,
Another who doesn’t join in certain of the joking,
Who never makes certain kinds of brags,
Who avoids certain places, certain games,
Who has the air of on avoiding discovery,
Who is on the run for his life.
And sometimes that man will talk to the other,
And sometimes they will know each other.