by Billy Joe
Based on a walk I took as a lad to a store called Hillside Confectionary for "penny candy"
Walking down the street, a neighborhood boy
with a de-barked tree branch in his hand might be
anyone -- a pirate, a knight, an alien;
or he might be no one at all -- a vacant page on which
the click-click-click of the branch against the picket
fence barely makes a mark on his consciousness.
The warmth of the morning sun on his face is scarcely
noticed, and the sweet scent of the lilac bushes down
the block will blend casually into his reverie.
The curious color of Spring's weeping willow branches,
neither yellow nor green, but somewhere in between,
makes little impression, and even the sour sweetness
of the lemon drop candy his grandpa slipped him
after breakfast only dissolves away into a distant
corner of his unfathomable bliss.