by Josh Yarden
there's that little boy
trekking to school
black galoshes and a yellow raincoat
stomping in puddles
imagining
he's an explorer
on a short cut
to an adventure
through the woods
down the hill into the trees
crossing the creek
one might meet Lewis and Clark
stop to catch a crayfish
a salamander
or hide out in the forrest
since we were probably going to be invaded by communists
we were taught to hide under our desks, playing war like a game
like kickball next to the dump across from Alan's house
or softball up at the corner next to Sandy's
or rough touch football in Jack's backyard
or base tag hiding behind a tree at dusk while Becca counted
that tall tree grew up with me
I used to climb to a high perch above it all
when there was no game in the street
Kate and I were going to walk to school together in September
I can still see her walking down the street
translucent memory of that endless summer
Don went to juvie for a year
or was it two
after he shot his father's gun
it was a party prank
they said Kate died instantly
never knew what happened
I doubted that
every day
as I walked to school alone
Don never really showed his face much after he came home
then one day he joined the game up at the corner
where the manhole cover was pitcher's mound
I hit a line drive
Nick turned away and ducked
somehow caught the ball behind his back, stole my home run
then Kate's mom came walking down the street
pushing her dad in his wheelchair
“You're the one,” she scowled at Don
“… who should be dead.”
around 15 kids in the street
didn't know where to hide our heads
rumor had it…
Sandy had an abortion
which is how I learned that word
Sam said Gary was a faggot
so he set his house on fire
the whole world seemed to be going mad
Billie told Gloria to shut up
or maybe that was a different day
or maybe that was everyday
somewhere between hearing
‘I have a dream' and
‘I am not a crook'
walking down my old street
no game up at the corner
not one kid on a bike
I was gonna show my son my initials carved high in that tree
only a circle of wood chips marks the spot
someone buried my childhood
life was so simple
in black galoshes
and a yellow raincoat
out for an adventure
searching for crayfish
a passage in the woods
most of the forrest is gone now
the shooting remains
and the imagination of a child