Sunday Afternoon
By C. Dale Young
For Donald Justice
Beyond the strings of water
clinging to the windowpane,
there were no cranes, just rain,
a sky blurred by wet glass,
a pond corrugated by raindrops,
and, inside, the smell of naphthalene bars,
a Victrola with a broken arm,
a spotty daguerreotype, a dusty crinoline—
O mildewed, seersucker suits
draped over vacant chairs.
Copyright © by the owner.
