New poem

Rainy Spring Morning

Rainy spring morning is older now

slower, less inclined to bound

up the down staircase

or greet sudden dawn with a drop jaw slap

to the forehead, night

somehow no longer young, drinking

whole days in breathless gulps from a clanging pail

knobby throat exposed, bobbing

lewd and naked, heedless

of a sopping shirt, unaware

exactly when he took to sipping primly

from the lip of the minute cup

a careful hand cupped to a careless chin

catching the gesture

in the window

above the sink

beneath the sleeve

of light that smears charcoal features

and quotes from windows past

the glow that drew him on his way to school

tucked way back

in the shadow of huddled trees

new leaves sluicing rain in whispers

onto the backs of sidewalk worms. 

Rainy spring morning twists the band

on his cudgel finger

grateful mate to the one you wear

dialing in this hypnotic spell of molten gold

a boy for a moment 

lingering in front of a house

upturned palm catching creamy light

that runs through his fingers

and pools around his clumping buckle boots.