Peter Croteau, Parking Lot (Morning Fog), 2009
it’s the neighbor boy’s
whose mother has stretched out the line from the porch
pinned to it the jeans and trousers and work shirts and socks
and there at the end where it’s tied to the aging sycamore
four pairs of briefs and a jockstrap
waistband-dangling
and dripping slightly still with wash water
he’s standing maybe half a football field away
on his side of the fence watching
what he can make out of the spot on the ground
where the water from the pouch splatters
before finding itself absorbed
by the land
breathing with the wind and the life sprouting from it
there’s nothing growing purposely there just
the grass that’s spread itself to the remainders of the yard
but the breeze as it does builds triggers
the longing of living things to expand
and the desire is to jump the fence and run
over to underneath to turn his head upwards
to taste the drops as they descend to learn
if they taste like soap or like what the soap removed
but he knows of course better
both their shirts billowing