Prelude.
Under the wisteria, Mr. Morrow stood still.
Caught by a shower and practicing guile,
smiled, showing good square teeth, a nervous trick.
And like a child, poked the ground with a stick.
From kindergarten up, he had been
drilled in the belief the carnal appetite will make the body
vile.
And from his cruel eyes, stared a young manhood
beyond good and evil.
As innocent of grief, he lingered in the shadow
of those spring vines, smiling.
In his strong hands, the designs of chance
burned under a faintly freckled skin.
Rained down wasps crawled under the leaves,
the school girls ran from the closing hour, finches clacked
in their shoddy nests in the eaves,
and from the wisteria leaves, a second shower
shook itself as clear as those tears for the thieves
in the eyes of a child without.
sin.