He was fifteen and handsome and
walking to work on a Saturday
morning when three large seventeen-
year-olds approached him and asked
for his wallet. He tried to small talk
his way out of it, he was quite a good
talker. One of them then hit him with
a good right followed by several more.
They eventually all had a turn on him.
Leaving him an unconscious bloody
mess on the footpath, just minutes
from work. I found out about it later
that day. He was beaten so
bad he had to get his jaw wired back
in place and his brain never did work
the same again. He couldn't leave his
home after that without a carer. He
couldn't think clearly enough to do
anything anymore. All because he
didn't want to give them his wallet.
I was told it had $1.60 in it.
Brenton reads "Robbed":
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Brenton confesses:"This poem is about a guy I worked with twenty years ago. I never saw him again after the day the poem takes place."