Jamaican Boy Poem by Marguerite Anderson

On the streets of Kingston, as the morning sun greets,
I see a Jamaican boy with calloused hands and weary feet.
His dreams in tatters like the shirt on his back,
Yet resilience in his eyes, on this rugged track.

No school for this child, fate dealt a cruel hand,
His classroom, the alleys where dreams turn to sand.
In the hustle and bustle of life's harsh beat,
He's a street merchant, a soul facing defeat.

Barefooted and ragged, his innocence stripped,
A boyish face but the struggle has gripped.
Life's burdens weigh heavy like stones in his sack,
Forced to grow older, there's no turning back.

The school bell chimes but his world won't align,
Books replaced by wares, in the sun he must shine.
A pencil for profit, not learning to write,
His future obscured by the city's twilight.

His face tells a tale, etched with hardship and strife,
No time for youth, just the struggle for life.
Lines of worry crease a visage once pure,
The boy now a man, though the age is unsure.

Yet, amidst the chaos, a spark in his eye,
Resilience and hope that refuse to die.
In the echoes of laughter, he finds a refrain,
A melody of strength, in the face of the pain.

Oh, Jamaican boy, on this turbulent street,
May your spirit endure, may your dreams find a seat.
For every hard day in the harsh city heat,
A chance for a better tomorrow to greet.