The Pocketcloth

Pudgy-faced, an innocent wanderer,
knowing not his destination,
perhaps going nowhere.
Does he miss the lure of playground vitality?
Can he even find the school?
Arms flailing in cyclical rapture
Blood feverishly races as a tributary
on painted faces - unaware of their pending isolation -
gazing foolishly to the skies for answers, pleading to the gods.

Olive suede his mate on this day;
he glides past, glancing behind
unknowingly.
Terrain, like an African foot-hold;
firm and unyielding, yet
flaunting a ruby-like pocketcloth on its spine.
A delicate, perfect silk, teasing the dusty road.
Lustful intrigue overrides rationality this day,
a union so new and vibrant.
Brashly wielding weapons of old
a young knight is restored.

Without explanation, the winds of cruelty
slash his spirit, and the pocketcloth is
violently liberated.
Fearing the worst and assuming the best,
he waits for a repirise,
as a diva pauses in the wings,
its fluttery glee so familiar to he...

2004