Peter CroteauParking Lot (Morning Fog), 2009

it’s the neighbor boy’s

      whose mother has stretched out the line from the porch
   pinned to it the jeans and trousers and work shirts and socks
and there   at the end where it’s tied to the aging sycamore
      four pairs of briefs and a jockstrap
and dripping      slightly      still      with wash water

he’s standing maybe half a football field away
      on his side of the fence      watching
   what he can make out of the spot on the ground
where the water from the pouch splatters
before finding itself absorbed
                                                   by the land
breathing with the wind      and the life sprouting from it
   there’s nothing growing purposely there      just
the grass that’s spread itself to the remainders of the yard
   but the breeze      as it does   builds      triggers
                     the longing of living things to expand
      and the desire is to jump the fence and run
   over to underneath      to turn his head upwards
to taste the drops as they descend      to learn
   if they taste like soap or like what the soap removed
but he knows   of course   better
      both their shirts   billowing


Doug Paul Case