The kid at the crosswalk

The kid at the crosswalk

had the lunch box gripped in both hands,

handles together,

chin tucked like he was walking into weather.

The light was red.

I had nowhere to be.

In seventh grade I sat at a table

where someone's thermos got passed around—

homemade soup, the kind with too many noodles,

and Marcus said something about it

that made everyone laugh,

and I laughed too.

I didn't start it.

That's the part I've been telling myself

for twenty years.

I didn't start it.

The kid whose soup it was

sat at a different table after that.

I don't know if he asked to move

or just moved.

I didn't ask.

I didn't say anything.

Not then, not after.

The light changed.

The kid at the crosswalk walked.

I watched him go

with his shoulders up around his ears

like armor he didn't know was armor yet,

and I thought about how

not starting something

is not the same as stopping it,

and how I'm still

not saying anything,

just writing it down here

where no one will read it.