I like this. It is a real poem, not just messing around. Someone suggested
that you strip the earlier draft bare. Forgive me, but I'd strip this draft
down a bit further:
The Sticks and Stones
Her feet on the sill
she thinks of names for her knees
and mouths them onto the glass.
They block her view of the children
in the gutter
playing Jackie-Five-Stones
She smiles and waves
but not at them.
She wants to know if the latch would look
like a stick upside down,
if only she could push it that far.
The metal screeches.
The wind catches
and her hair becomes feathers.
The children run
empty-handed down the street.
--
Joseph Duemer
Professor of Humanities
Clarkson University
[sharpsand.net]
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