Is a boy’s pail an article of his own faith,
of portion and carriage,
or a red herring in my myth starring him?
Spill then scour:
flush some damned spot.
Pour and trowel:
dam the tide.
The hollow clap when he sets it down empty,
the clack of the handle.
It bides its time on the planks
while he loves me, swings
from his curled fingers as he leaves me,
or it and he go about his business,
paying me no mind whatsoever.
