Mr. Foster shapes his leather recliner,
drinking a soft Manhattan, rain drops
on windows of the new one-story ranch,
blur his vision.
Chicken soufflé simmering in the oven,
A-Team on the T.V.
His Little Princess plays in the rain
with friends whose parents gather for cocktail parties,
to discuss East Soccer and the annual Silver Spring Golf Outing;
she drives down Pomona Avenue, watching for deer
while passing the Pot into the back seat,
clouded windows on her new BMW
shade her vision.
She turns up the Zeppelin CD, a smile
in her friend's bloody eyes.
Lamplighter Park on a rainy evening
is a rebel's paradise, the lake,
city-tax sculpted, bubbled at the surface
with drops of water
like carbonation in a glass of corona.
Her skinny body dips into frigid water
with boys from the back seat; tonight the Virgin
Mary is quite forgotten.
She comes home at curfew, Jasmine perfume,
her mind a blank page, nothing to say
to her Dad's sincere hello.
She slips into bed to dream
before she falls asleep.
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