Sonnet: The Poet at Seven -- Donald Justice

(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. -- Donald Justice