A small "scene" boy

Not but fifteen. Black disheveled hair under a black hoodie. It had a gloss to it, too; he probably hadn't showered in days. All of them had that gloss and that present, yet unobtrusive body odor. For the life of me, I could never figure out why it smelled fruity. He smoked--his kind did--and a cigarette hung between his pursed lips. On the exhale, he wouldn't do anything sexy, nothing provocative--nothing like rings or a curl, nothing to indicate pleasure--only a cloud of smoke and a sigh. He was counter-culture trash. He was a creature of the night; I'd only see him nights, and I believe he liked that best. The sun hurts him: exposes the immediacy of his world. At night, he can't see more than a couple of houses down, and he can vacillate between his indolence and duty. He doesn't need others--only money and spare time. Both of which, his yuppie parents dish out readily.

Milk

The milk has gone warm, left on the porch for near an hour.
The flies have got to it, too,
And I don't suppose the dog wants it.

I'll bring it in, anyways--perhaps put it in the fridge for later.
Nope.
There's last week's bottle--that too, left on the porch.

I should have the milkman deliver it some other time: later, as the morning carries on.
On habit, I don't get up before nine--late nights at the steel foundry and all.
Oh, but how I do enjoy my milk. Cornelius does too. Gruffy ol' dog. Needs it for his bones.

Wonder if the Times is out on the lawn.

A Weathered Spoon

Two, one in the other, spoon on a blanket on the sand at the beach.

Both wrinkled and weathered by work weary, they spoon as the sun dips beneath the sea's horizon.

It's a Saturday.