Boyhood

Boyhood

by paul o. jenkins

Some late December afternoon,

The dim,

Cold and biting,

Blankets the corner house.

No birds are left to sing.

Instead a faint howl–

Some puppy banished for barking–

Serves to scold me,

For I, a child, have been childishly foolish.

I, a child, have been childishly foolish

And sit, unrepentant,

Straining to summon rue,

As a new warmth bathes my being,

A first acquaintance with sweat,

So confining as to swaddle me.