Sunday Afternoon
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.
Copyright Credit: “Sunday Afternoon” by C. Dale Young from The day underneath the day. © 2001 by C. Dale Young. Published by TriQuarterly/Northwestern University Press. All rights reserved.
Source: The Day Underneath the Day (TriQuarterly Books, 2001)