beads

a boy is sitting on his chair in the dark
in his hand, a rosary
dark, smooth wooden beads
he rubs one gently with finger and thumb
watching it spin around a tiny silver chain.
silver Christ, glued to a polished wooden cross
his minute face solemn, peaceful
but olny lines etched skillfully into metal

he leans his neck back against the top of the chair
he can see nothing, glaring up at the ceiling.
clutching the cross loosely in his hand
in and out of sleep
wishing for some thing
hearing some kind of word, but maybe it is no word
music that is not there

alone
he joins the small silver Jesus in quiet sleep
away, but into the heart of himself
crying bead-drops nobody can hear