February 27, 2014

squib to precisely measured...

photo by Clint McMahon ©

potential to kinetic, lies of middle age
(hoping this cold winter ends soon)

there I was in a here I am moment
kicking an abandoned ball
near the hydrant corner curb
at a brick alley mouth
while walking home after midnight from work
as I articulated and readied a strike
I imagined I had never become cynical

there is undefined joy
when an act displaces logic and
reason’s stranglehold of time
with the eyes and limbs of a child again
I wasn’t just kicking this tattered soccer ball
a panel dangling, as if some morphed
dog ear page of a book
saying look at me I am filled
with wordless memories, full of fade
losing air, look at me, so still, right here
can you kick me into some little space or
spin me to a dead stop
along a clay mortar way 
remembering the day
as night’s shadows pierce me
with a blooming
dark garden’s rise 
under the yellow sodium sorrow
of the streetlights

yes kick me
pretend it is summer or spring again
sometime when you were ten and
did not care what the world meant
through the lens of the adult capture
a place so busy and readily able
to miss the importance of living earnestly
and always as a kid

EJR © 

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