lather, scrape, rinse,
Two sons stand crowding at the door,
parked in the lot:
bicycles in the bed --
wheels slowly progress, back and forth,
a nearly intact Fudgesicle,
"missing, last seen wearing..."
All night long, awake, listening,
at 3:00 a.m.
panicked, sure I forgot
something important. Did Andrew
his brother climb
the backyard's tallest tree.
His eyes follow, he tells himself:
biting his lip,
a solid, dusty, whump!
announces the summer triumph:
on the front porch,
tugging the loose laces -
"It was my father's mitt, then mine,
he gives the mitt
to his little brother,
explains the history and says,
easy, but quick...
Your wrist, son. Watch, here's how.
Twist your waist, unwind your arm,
now - release!
Bat off shoulder.
Look here! Eyes on the ball...
It's ok! Try again... Now SWING!
Push this button.
Go get your extra man!
You gotta jump! Watch out! Sorry.
melange of sand and sun,
the slightest taste of cinnamon
spills through my hands;
I think of a savage
kneeling beside a dark river --
mold my nomadic thoughts
into the Islamic shape of
the wedding, the babies,
placing them just so, turning him
Copyright © Thomas D. Greer 1996
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