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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

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