Meeting Andy

"What's his name?"
I looked up
To find a little boy.

Skin as pale as
The snow heaps
I used to avoid
While looking for
A place to sleep.

I looked up
And around, anticipating
A young mother to
Swoop in and extract
The little boy from
The black street walker.

She never came,
Instead the little boy
Stood waiting for my
Answer as he patted
My mongrel of a dog.

"It doesn't have a name,"
I said at last.

"But what do you
Call him?" he asked.

"Her."

"You call him, 'her'?"
His eyes opened wide
At the ludicrosity of
Calling a boy dog, 'Her'.

"It's female, kid and
I call her 'Dog',"
The dog looked up at me.
"See, she responds to 'Dog'."

"My name is Andrew,
But everyone calls
Me Andy," the little boy said,
Continuing his conversation
With a complete stranger.

"Look, kid...."

"Andy."

"Look, Andy,
I don't need
To know your name.
In fact, where's your mommy?"

He looked down
At the dog, talking more
To her than to me,
"She's dead."

"What about your daddy?"
I was grabbing for anything.

He shook his head,
"He's dead, too."
He looked up and
I saw unshed tears
In the small boy's eyes.

The thick, ice shell
Around my heart broke
And melted away.
"My name is Angella,
But everyone calls
Me, Angie."

A smile spread
Across his face,
"It's nice meeting
You, Angie," he said.

"It's nice meeting
You, Andy."