Scry Boy

Sulks in his stride
in his only option that day of rain.
He walks deeply down the street
with his hair dripping wet.

I pull out of my driveway
only to gaze into him,
like a rat in solitude he is,
and I could regret that I know
that he is telepathic with my process.

Steadily, he tramples
over concrete staples
still twisting forth, turning back
dynamic butterfly
is antsy
to radiate
in melon-baller flight.