Little Boy

I lounge there

next to a young boy,

maybe 5 or 6.

The wheels of the train

rolling under us.

He looks out that dirty window.

Tries to wipe away the dirt,

with the sleeve of his shirt.

Gazing out that filthy glass,

at the pines 

lining a gray sky.

Swallowing mud and 

verdant needles.

Lithe deer and

cawing crows.

He sits back down,

murmuring under his breath.

"They were wrong."

There was truth to that.