A boy looks out his window on an April afternoon
his room is quiet
there are cake crumbs stuck
in between
the keys
on which his fingers rest.
It’s quiet
and yet
as he looks out his window on this April afternoon
he sees the sky is blue
almost too blue, to be true
he thinks this, eyes skimming the circles of lawns;
they’re green
all green
green and blue
and white paint, and grey roofs
every one the same.
It’s an April afternoon
and his room is quiet
and the sky is blue
and the lawns are green
and his friends aren’t here
they’re there— not here
out there, somewhere, in the world
how he longs to sit and talk!
to live a day wherein he might not
be quite so
lonely
and maybe, he thinks
the sky isn’t too blue for them
maybe the lawns aren’t all clean-cut green
maybe their rooms aren’t as quiet as his
is
at all
on this April afternoon.
This boy thinks, to himself, in his room
he thinks it’s quiet
in his room
though
in his head he can hear the world
breathe
and the world
it sighs to him
it plays the wind, in its sighs to him
and in the breath
with which the world moves
in faint, faraway wind chimes
a boy hears the note desolation plays
on an April afternoon.