rules

there are rules for an orphan, written by machine
taped or tacked, hammered and nailed, here there
by windows and doors, gentle reminders
strong aversions, principles for living with some use
some purpose, to clear the doubt that might be
clouding

for an orphan may have an expectation, as he
waits up in the window, watching cars, counting
passers by, searching faces for some kindness
for some willingness to share their beds
perhaps a name, he searches in the eyes of
strangers

he may be wracked by jealousies, as golden
folk give nod and smile but leave him smit
choosing lads far younger, leaner in their needs
choosing lads with bluer eyes, a keener nose
who smile without his anger or his tear
his regret

an orphan is an orphan, though he finally makes
the man, carried by his little torments, unsure
of roads that lead into the world, stumbled
by perplexity, bowed by wonder and out to
seek the rules far from his door, holding his
heart's small murmur