The Price of Silence

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The pennies struck the pavement, one after another,
clattering like spent shells on a frosted forest floor.
The old man flinched, then looked up,
not at the sky, not at the school bus, but at the space between,
where laughter lingered, thick as gun smoke.

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Slowly, he folded his Sunday-edition blanket, set it aside,
and without hesitation, began to collect his treasure…
tiny copper idols scattered along the sidewalk,
shining in the late afternoon sun.

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The boys threw harder, laughed louder,
their voices rising from the yellow chariot
that had carried them far away from innocence.
But he moved as if he did not hear,
as if this was his work, his fortune,
as if pennies were meant to be gathered,
not discarded.

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He tracked two rolling coins like a kitten chasing ants,
his cracked, dirty hands collecting each insult
with curious determination.

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And then he looked up, and our eyes met,
a moment stretched between us,
a thread bonding his shame and mine.
I had not thrown a penny.
I had not laughed.
But I had watched,
and I had done nothing.
That was my burden.

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Still, when the bus lurched forward,
and the boys searched for fresh victims,
the old man straightened, clutching his copper gold,
he held my gaze just long enough
to say what I could not.

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His suffering was my penance,
and his bullseye was my shield.
Sometimes we play a role,
but we always choose our silence.

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