#486. kick the can

November 26, 2011

calling me home
with the darkening dusk
and the endless street games
going on with the seductive voices 
of the other children ringing the seratonin 
bells of longing to belong in my traitor heart

fear bringing us all home to a silent dinner table
father mother and son and son and son 
in the house by a now dead cherry tree
we ate and became the family that i cannot find

anywhere in time the deep echo of my name 
still rolls down the block behind the houses
of neighbors up green suburban knolls
where the kids all wrestled as one 
in the coming night of life
calling me home

3 Responses to “#486. kick the can”

  1. Concrete poetry is always a challenge, but you pull it off and still write poetry inside the shape.

  2. slpmartin said

    I wonder if the childhood we recall was real or just the good parts that we remember…no matter…neither exists anymore as you so well note.

  3. Evelyn said

    I keep rereading that middle strophe again and again…

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