Not the Song, But After

Now everywhere the pageantry of youth
     is on display:
The squeal of bike-chains spinning through the gray
     plays fugue to puddle-froth;

The punctual blitz of hyacinths in April
     ushers spring
with lavender dripped from the upturned wing
     of wind-swept Gabriel.

A youngish pair walks wired at the arms -
     she casually ribbing
him, he lightly brushing her breast, jibbing
     their step to spare the worms

stranded on pavement seas. Too soon, their laughter
     rises and goes
drifting toward silence. And now the young man knows
...