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Prelude.

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Under the wisteria,
Mr. Morrow stood still.

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Caught by a shower
and practicing guile,

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smiled, showing good square
teeth, a nervous trick.

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And like a child, poked
the ground with a stick.

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From kindergarten
up, he had been

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drilled in the belief the carnal
appetite will make the body

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vile.

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And from his cruel eyes,
stared a young manhood

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beyond good and evil.

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As innocent of grief, he
lingered in the shadow

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of those spring vines, smiling.

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In his strong hands,
the designs of chance

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burned under a
faintly freckled skin.

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Rained down wasps
crawled under the leaves,

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the school girls ran from the
closing hour, finches clacked

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in their shoddy
nests in the eaves,

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and from the wisteria
leaves, a second shower

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shook itself as clear as
those tears for the thieves

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in the eyes of a child without.

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sin.

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