THE CLOWN

The water flows slow and white from the flume.

The boy rubs the wet stones

with his feet, his legs

and shorts are haired with dust.

I finish and he drinks,

throat like a heart,

then dips his head beneath the tap.

"Feel good, Lee?"

He smiles.

His fingers spread to bare

the peach: his teeth press

its juices drown his throat.

At his stomach I collect the stream

on my finger

earth and salt and peach.

"Clown!" he chides.

-Douglas R. Empringham

٤٠٤٠

11