Baptism

Planes roar in the distance
with a whorling noise
like a pan being scoured,
steam rising off the metal
to dew the cold tap,
clouds pushing cool
at the window latch.
Street grey with rain,
spotted moss, drizzle from
the childhood playground
caught in bunches
on the bare twigs,
jewels of sky spit.
The sweet reek
of grapes and chocolate
crushed into a sandwich
in a plastic lunchbox.
Soggy bread and syrup
circle the storm drain.
The last leaf flags,
tearing off, lands
in a puddle. At six,
falling in the nature pond,
wrapping in weeds,
toads stuck to the stones,
gasping dead fishlike,
clambering out felt
like a baptism. Tacky
juice residue clings
to fingers, prangs
in the nostrils.
Open the window
making a blank hole,
take a breath
and skip the ledge.