“Portals to Adulthood”
It moves me when I see
grown ups playing
in the streets and empty lots
with their children and their friends.
It shows me that they still understand
the thrill of kicking soccer balls
into the neighbors’ yards
or whacking baseballs
back to the fence line
or where the weed patch grows tall
and then running—maybe lumbering
like they are pulling
a two-bottom plow—
for all they are worth
rounding bases, mostly gunny sacks,
from barns or shingles blown off the house
or someone’s wadded up jacket.
When the games are finished
or when their wives call them
from the front porch, they trudge
toward home, T-shirts drenched
in sweat, breathing a bit ragged,
their voices carrying stories
of great slides, nifty catches with one hand.
Slowly they each turn into their own
yards, sensing that youth stays
in the streets. Taking deep breathes,
they open the front door
of their mortgaged houses,
don their disguise of maturity,
and slip through their front door,
now a portal to adulthood.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment