the little red flower,
oh how it pulls its strings on that little child's heart!
lovingly, longingly, respectfully
does he stare at the minute paper flower cupped in his tiny palms.
Yet, the one he held so dear was not his,
for he didn't:
dress himself today,
he peed on his bed,
he didn't wash his hands
and he peed on purpose, in his pants!
truth is, that little boy has never gotten a flower before!
No matter how hard he tried,
everything just seemed too difficult for him,
an unattainable accomplishment.
Every little child in the orphanage had at least
one little red paper flower
except him.
Alas, he has gotten his rightfully earned flower,
its petals slightly crinkled and yellowed with age.
It was not his.
Guilt gnawed endlessly at his heart,
part of him yearned for it so badly,
another part urged him mercilessly to return it.
Tears streamed down his chubby face.
Oh how he wanted it, how he wanted it!
But, he realised he did not deserve that little red flower.
So, carefully, he daintily places it back where it belongs,
to its rightful and deserving owner, such an obedient girl.
She was the blue-eyed girl of the class,
ever ready to lead her peers,
always prepared to show them
how to change into
pajamas and back into the school uniform.
This was something the boy could not do.

With much enthusiasm and determination in his beating heart,
this little boy has decided that
he will get
his own
little
red
flower.

A steaming mug of rich creamy black coffee,
what is it to us?
Nothing more than a few dollars worth of caffeine indulgence,
a daily perk i suppose.
But,
to that old man resting by the rickety table,
his styrofoam cup filled with thin, diluted black coffee
was all he could ask for.

As i watch him silently limp into the old coffee shop down the road again,
pity overcomes me
seeing how much he seemed to enjoy the day's break
of the cheap, less than a half a dollar, cup of kopi-o.
The usually exhausted, drooped shoulders
were now straight, with a slight skip in his step.
Dragging his right foot with wide left steps,
his frizzled unkempt hair bouncing along,
his delighted laughter echoes down the empty street.
Who knew how much one cup of coffee could transform a person!

Now, as he sits at his usual corner by the old radio
blaring chinese opera music loudly,
his eyes rest upon the yellowed styrofoam cup lovingly.
What he sees in it, i will never know,
however,
the tenderness he gives it as the cup is carefully lifted to his
peeling lips.
Astonishing.
As though holding his very first child,
he sips it delicately, afraid to spill even a drop of the liquid.
The steam wisps blur his vision,
perspiration starts to trickle down his shiny forehead.
He doesn't care.

Placing his finished cup of coffee onto the cold damp wooden table,
his shoulders once again slump,
his dreamy expression changes back to that unreadable gaze,
depthless glazed eyes.
Getting up from the stool with much lethargy,
the old man makes his way slowly out of the door, shoulders hunched.
He doesn't look back,
he never does.
And the old man's gone.
He's gone.