[His Optimism]
The three freckles under his squinted eye remind me
of connect-the-dot pictures, the smile he loosely throws
hits me like hail, like fire.
His fingers are flat and round and speak volumes.
They whisper: I hold you close because it is dangerous to
cross a street alone. He
explains, how futile your optimism is in the summer.
On the
first day of school these rubber erasers, pink and fresh, like promises,
give way to the grubbier
sandpaper forms of well-worn school supplies.
As soon as class starts, they cave in like martyrs, like saints.
It’s starting to smell like summer,
It hits me when I think about him, and I’m worried, I’m concerned,
he might forget me come the snow.
Any thoughts/comments/criticisms would be greatly appreciated. Especially on the title, since I've had a hard time deciding on one. Thank you!
__________________
She has always been there, my darling. She is, in fact, exquisite. F i r e w o r k s in the dull middle of February and as real as a cast-iron pot.
:: Anne Sexton
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