Two Poems

His best shirt, faded by the sun and frayed,
Is slightly too small. Beside him in the bus
Sits an elder brother. They are going North to work.
Children, old women, have gathered to see them off.

After the wavings, when the bus is on its way,
The boy runs a slow finger along his cheek
And then the line of his lips, as if to take
A last cognizance of his childhood face.
 

"NOTHING BUT THE FLICKER OF
...