My son sprints, all unpracticed nonchalance,
to match my stride at the lake's warmed edge.
Silent against the coming dark,
standing together as if to pray,
we pee.
Mine falls short, yellowed,
diminishing, with a rustling hiss,
vanishing into the sponge, decay
of bark, soft rust of pine. The last veins
of bronzed light outline the profound arch
of sparking piss as he starts to spray;
widening as he swivels, side to side,
with unrestrained enduring force,
eyes delight, tossing his wolf-thick hair,
his delicately boned chest bare
to the low sun of summer's end.
 

Michael Ansara, 58, lives and writes in Carlisle, Massachusetts.




 

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 Michael

 Ansara