The Boy

The boy who flies the kite into the radio-waves
Appears in my window.
His terrace is a part of my window.
His staccato romance
A fringe of my soul.
He prances about,
Behind the red flag,
Beneath the pink, windy evening sky.
The river wind caresses
The blackened walls of his house.
The street-lights shine on his transient identity
And the angst of evening commuters
Inhabits the air below. But look
How he flies his red kite,
Into the river winds of neglected history.
Look how he shines without ambition.
Look how tries to overcome
These raw manacles
Of an usual life.