Street Boy

The afternoon slows down, the town in steady rain.

That one with the trendy chicken-plucked look—

hair a tufted circle on top, the rest shaved all around—

I can't really care about. Of course I hope

he grows up without totalling himself and his car,

but he's the clown in this act. He seems even

to know his place as unworthy twerpy follower

of the one no one would look away from for long,

whose James Dean stance, hands deep in pockets

of a rattily natty maroon corduroy blazer,

shoves his shoulders nearly to his ears.

Beneath the blazer, long sulked-in jeans,

oversized black boots. He lifts one

to kick a milkshake someone couldn't finish

standing on the sidewalk, and it lands on

its side, explodes and rolls a vanilla graffito,

expletive unfurling. Expressionless himself.

The other boy smirks before the rain douses

and sweeps it stupidly into the gutter.

Even if I were not invisible through this darkish window,

they would know how to erase me. Well, he would.

I would enjoy that, just to see how he would do it,

what sort of panache he'd pack in his shrug.

Raining harder, and the tuft-headed one shifts

unhappily under the Revco awning, pivoting

his whole body now and then to see what the one

I'm half in love with's doing, fifteen, maybe sixteen:

he's twitching in sublime irritation, lighting up

again, hard to do with both hands in your pockets

but he pretty much manages no problem, and now

comes the move that gets me. He strides out

from under the awning, a spotted Lucky sticking straight

from his lip, walks two buildings down and turns

at the corner so his back's to Main Street and me,

stands, his twitch becalmed at last, stands

without heeding his friend's pleading

jeering calls, you idiot, you idiot, you

idiot, stands hunched, not looking up or down,

and I can tell this is his moment, this is where

he'll break off, he's going to unload everyone,

he doesn't blink as he hawks up their nothingness

and spits, feeling himself filling with what's left:

he takes possession of his spirited bad luck for good

and mounts and rides it without moving a muscle, stands

letting the rain collect behind his collar and drench

his gloriously inappropriately maroon corduroy

and his hair that looks not combable by anyone

alive, wild and bunched even when the rain

has patted keeps patting at it harder and harder

like an obsolete humiliated hand that wants to

feed and fend for and in general do for him,

and he has turned his back at last on the clown,

and on Main Street full of clowns you can both see

and not see, who wouldn't dare try to keep an eye on him

or try to follow him from now on.