The Clothesline

On the porch, she sat

Alone,

as the sun shone upon her

a regal glow.

Her yellow dress flowed with ease

as it radiated shame and doubts upon

my oversized shirt and

lingered on the space

around

the insides of

my baggy pants.

I held out my

Hand

and waited for

the touch

that held on through

bright skies and ice creams and

days playing with

puddles of mud.

Until our feet became soddened with

dirt and water

and our hands,

wrinkled with soap suds and

still waters,

as we try to wash in vain

the stain of our

childhood

bliss.

And on the porch

we watch the

years roll by

and try to fold in the

letters and the

miles that set us

apart

and remember

the rotting wooden clothespins

that secures in place

the hues of

yellow and blue,

of the days

when we watch over

them fluttering along with

the wind that

blows

hard

and hanging on as

the rain

falls

down.

Tags: maureen, narrative poem, poetry, the clothesline