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.

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