Rainy Spring Morning

Rainy spring morning is older now
slower, less inclined to bound
up the down staircase or greet
dawn with a drop jaw slap
to the forehead, night
somehow no longer young, drinking
whole days in breathless gulps from a pail
knobby throat exposed, bobbing
lewd and naked, heedless
of a sopping shirt, unaware
exactly when he took to sipping primly
from the lip of the minute cup
a careful hand cupped to a careless chin
catching the gesture
in the window
above the sink
beneath the sleeve
of light that smears charcoal features
and quotes from windows past
the glow that drew him
on his way to school
tucked back in the shadow of huddled
trees, new leaves sluicing rain in whispers
onto the backs of sidewalk worms.  
Rainy spring morning twists the band
on his cudgel finger
mate to the one you wear
dialing in this hypnotic spell of molten gold
a boy for a moment  
lingering in front of a house
upturned palm catching creamy light
that runs through his fingers
and pools around his half buckled boots.