COME THE CERTAIN DARK TIMES,
Richard Fein
I'll need this rainy morning remembrance
of my taking him to school:
he jumping in and out of puddles
ignoring my halfhearted scolding,
a warm, gentle rain falling on all the muted street hues,
his yellow raincoat a bright beacon on this gray day,
his last furtive kiss out of sight from his classmates,
the long line of drizzled-on munchkins,
his last look at me, his final wave.
His final wave.
Iron doors slam shut.
Now pointless, even suspicious, to remain.
But come the certain dark times,
I'll draw on this memory.
