Summer Skin
When I
slipped out of
old clothes for the new century,
the tired rags coming off
in great display,
I took the
last half of it laughing,
luminous against backdrops of
half-filled water glasses sitting on
kitchen counters, sticky atop Formica,
sweating in lakeside heat.
I was the
imaginary boy, a
boundless whirring of pregnant possibility;
all chanting in soft voice how
great the wings would grow
despite their bent angles.
Until I
dropped robes of old time,
the light box of arcade plastic
and screen reflection dulling me,
As I take timepieces,
calendars,
silver dollars, baby spoons,
All down to
a penny pawn shop,
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