there is a caul of dust on the stairs
where, past his bed­time, he used to
watch free­dom through ban­is­ter rungs
the feet on handme­down paja­mas
too large; sleeves
too short.
         he still won­ders
what they meant
“you’ll grow into it.”

If you can’t tell already, this is speed poet­ry week. I’m spend­ing ten min­utes or less on these, although I will go back and work­shop ‘em as time per­mits. This one in par­tic­u­lar I think I’d like to flesh out.