Park

She was middle aged,
Weathered face, dirt ingrained,
Walking like she was beaten down,
I could hear the group of kids laugh,
She came closer, looking distressed,
Chapped lips parted to ask the question,
"Can you pray for my son?"
I say yes, seeking to offer comfort.
Not telling her, I am  not the praying kind.
She volunteers, in a puzzled voice,
"Those kids are telling me my son turns into a dragon,
And flies to the hills, and he breathes out stars."
I hurt for this lady,
Wishing the teens had a bit of mercy.
The lady walks slowly away,
Asking each and every person she sees,
"Have you seen my son today?
Can you pray for him?"