And on the porch, across the upturned chair,
The boy would spread a dingy counterpane
Against the length and majesty of the rain,
And on all fours crawl under it like a bear
To lick his wounds in secret, in his lair;
And afterwards, in the windy yard again,
One hand cocked back, release his paper plane
Frail as a May fly to the faithless air.
And summer evenings he would whirl around
Faster and faster till the drunken ground
rose up to meet him; sometimes he would squat
Among the bent weeds of the vacant lot,
Waiting for the dusk and someone dear to come
And whip him down the street, but gently, home.

--Donald Justice