Beside his bedside table, he stands still,
everything inside pitch black, pouring rain
slaps his face as he watches
the lightning strike,
in terror yet entranced, he counts, seconds
diminish before the thunder rumbles,
even the curtains couldn't hide the rain,
his face wet, he cannot close the window,
in fear he waits for the storm to pass through,
still, on the road, he hears two men argue,
beside his bedside table, rainwater
enters the open window, the floorboards,
despite a fresh coat of varnish applied,
soaked between the cracks, warped
beyond repair,
in time, his father will hire these two men,
despite their argument over a bet,
even they get along as contractors,
trouble is tonight, the storm doesn't move,
as the rain comes down, the men get angry,
bitterness over poverty and years
left alone together, not as brothers,
even they would get along, but soldiers,
he stands still and watches as the two men
engage in drunken street fighting, the rain
slaps his face wet inside his dark bedroom,
the argument outside turns violent
as one man shoots the other in the head,
nothing but the wind howling
through the trees,
despite the darkness inside, the small boy
sees the murder take place,
no one else knows,
seven months later during a warm night,
the boy shows his father how he watches
in the dark, the street life, outside their home,
left to make his own conclusions, his dad
led his son to the judge to testify.
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