For the modest span of three city blocks

I was a guardian escort last night.
Though no one notices and no one talks,
there was one who cared under the moon light:
I saw a small child wander aimlessly
and hopelessly, it seems, from how he winced,
down those three city blocks so lifelessly,
with no guardian in sight – a lost prince:
He wore a blue Dallas Cowboys T-shirt
above grey long-sleeves, I guess for the cold;
with his languid steps,  it was clear that hurt
wracked his fertile brain, which seemed bright and bold:
We made eye contact once; I knew my place –
Show you care, and they will spit in your face.
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