As Uncle Ken readies the evening light
each furl is detectable to the ready eye:
they came in a big-tired truck with blistering paint—
the neighbors' Dobie met them in the drive;
the aging and sullen Dick with his bare-chested,
witless son hoping to find that place where a pact
could be stricken—the demands of which Ken
was happy to consider. They paused there
with hands
on the waist, each eyeing the other, then finding
the plain reason of virile distraction. Spring kept
lingering
its showy self, bud stricken, as the light elects
to emigrate across the cut of her hair, the dip
in her collar.
[ rdking.net ]