The Debt

The clouds have pulled their curtains back

to let the Tuesday light come in.

The driveway has a drying crack.

The air is smelling sweet and thin.

He’s standing by the porch’s edge

with yellow plastic in his grip.

I made a vague and heavy pledge

that’s starting, now, to lose its slip.

A single bubble, round and slow,

descends to meet his canvas shoe.

It doesn't pop or let him go.

It sits there, waiting for the blue.