(Poem #240)Sonnet: The Poet at Seven
And on the porch, across the upturned chair, The boy would spread a dingy counterpane Against the length and majesty of the rain, And on all fours crawl under it like a bear To lick his wounds in secret, in his lair. And afterwards, in the windy yard again, One hand cocked back, release his paper plane Frail as a May fly to the faithless air. And summer evenings he would whirl around Faster and faster till the drunken ground rose up to meet him; sometimes he would squat Among the bent weeds of the vacant lot, Waiting for the dusk and someone dear to come And whip him down the street, but gently, home. |
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