Driver's Boy

Black Toyota,
Fresh chrome trim,
Driving it for joy,
Drivers got a boy,
Boy named Tim,
Green Yoda toy,
Sittin in the backseat,
Tim’s toy of choice,
Tim’s full of joy.

Driver turns to peek,
And starts to speak;
There ain't a voice,
Not a squeak.
Boy must be playing coy.
Silence too long,
Somethings wrong,
Driver full of doubt,
He's screaming out,
“Where did I do wrong?
Why can't I belong?
What did I do,
For you to forget,
I'm here for you?”
Why can't I be strong?
Boy I don't get it.”
Pulls over and stares,
At little Tim,
Street light bathing him,
Sea of golden hairs,
Illuminated yellow.

His doom and hate,
Get up and go,
Like melting snow,
Hit by sun rays,
Gazing at Tim,
Yoda under him,
Dreams swimming,
Sleeping face grinning,
Shirt color of cinnamon,
Not of trace of sinning in him,
Man wishes he were Tim,
Free of anything grim,
And happy till the end
Think’s of a synonym for him:
A singing saint,
Ascending into serenity,
Sending to him,
His fading smile,
As he goes through thick and thin,
Relying on his love from within,
Straying from his kin,
Beckoning the fun to extend,
And laughing till his end.

Driver smirks,
Puts the key in,
and turns.
Wonders about Tim’s fuse,
Whether it's from learning,
Or if it’s from yearning—
Either way, it's burning,
And one step closer to earning.

He loves that boy,
From head to feet.

Driver speeds up,
And continues the journey,
Down the nameless road,
Lit only by the moon,
And seen only by the stars.