Chester Weinerman
RAINCLOUDS
Rolling waves come on to cancel
the prints of cynical children
who daily run off into specks when
ever clouds fold over the puffs
of last hour's colored heaven.
Young black muchachos go on shining
shoes in the sporadic rainfall , and for
an extra quarter flip a wink, a tease.
You, like tarpaper on a shantytown roof
cover the tops of castles everywhere
that crumble whenever we turn our backs.
It
is no different than watching the logs
lick the black insides of an Ashl ey belly
stove warming a one-man shelter
in the frozen white of Vermont, back home.
Your face flicked off in red chips,
then .
Wait for me, cheekens; I am running close
behind, plane ticket in hand, flapping
with stories to tell you may someday believe.
