“I found a clue,” he’d say as he
Would pick up yet another object and
Inspect it under his magnifying glass
With the canary yellow handle.

He himself was a mystery,
Written out in pale skin,
Bony fingers, slate grey eyes,
And yellow-white hair
That would put a Swede to shame.

And against the silver-blue sky
We stood, two playground misfits –
One paler than the moon, the
Other, a chocolate brown mixed girl;

Examining clues and taking notes,
I forgot my tortures at the hands
Of other children. I forgot that
I should have been a girl playing house.

Instead, as one boy’s dreams turned
Him into Sherlock Homes,
I became Watson.

Written 8/17/2007

© 2007 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.