The child I couldn't save
still lingers in this playyard
as the baseball tundra echoes condensation
but there's nothing I can save,
he must do this on his own.
The leagues have been suspended,
the bigger kids are grown,
the refreshment shed is locked up like a drum
But children are no longer fell behind
heads filled with festering wounds
crying showing nothing from inside;
the tree limbs only sway,
they are somewhere else.
They're with the hundred stories
that amble into Wendy's,
the homeless monastery with pewter hoodies,
men knocked down in their prime, by life
to Facebook life, now sharing memories
of lobster tails and California winters
as they wait for time to heal the wounds
and friends to share their cigarettes
and talk of joy distractions
where they weren't a none around.
He's waiting with heart open
by a closed door, though they vanish,
his friends, on the other side,
the place where shame will finally go to hide
from those who're only but a half-step behind,
with jobs and homes and wives,
those things that always are the first to go
when lessons need be learned
of living with yourself,
to sit with choices made,
the waiting to be found.
