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| https://www.flickr.com/photos/willrad/ 145716913 |
out, stand in the grass beneath
the moon, feet crunching dry leaves,
breath visible in the autumn air, shoulders
touching both for warmth and shared
experience. The window's open, framing
him, and light surrounds him, saint-like,
at the kitchen sink as all alone he sings
the pop tunes with the radio. His rhythm
ebbs and flows, he elegantly twirls a girl
that only he can see as plates are dried
and put away. "He's perfect, isn't he?"
his sister whispers. "Yes, he is," their mother
says, but it will be some forty years or more
before they tell him how they watched
him from the yard, how much they loved
him, how they wish that they had told
him sooner but were afraid he'd be
embarrassed, turn the music off. How that
was not a chance that they could take.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015
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