As a kid, my best days had a trip to the park
in summer,
when Mother had time after work
and it didn't get dark so fast
we rode bikes on the paths between broken glass,
watched for stray dogs
(and avoided the grass)
once we saw two men strolling, holding hands
and Mother said not to stare,
"They must be Europeans - they do things like that"
her best friend was Mrs. Cohen-Around-The-Corner
they could cluck across our rough fence out back
or toss apples to one another
were there an apple tree nearby
(but there wasn't)
so they used the telephone instead
the woman, she once told me,
"would just die"
if her only son ever brought home
"a shiksa"
I laughed at the word,
because it sounded sounded funny and ethnic
(Mrs. Cohen taught English)
she let her boy back-talk,
even express profanity
in graffiti on a bedroom door
with black permanent marker
(it could always be repainted later, she explained)
mine met reason with
quick backhands or glowering looks;
once even washed my mouth out
with soap
so I nodded in agreement
I revisited the old neighborhood,
to the teacher long retired;
showed wallet photos
and discussed our health
(hers mostly),
hearing accounts of the son away
years at kibbutz,
too busy to call regularly
or make any grandchildren yet
I didn't mention the trip to the park
which was neater than I remember
the kids played tag
(on the grass!)
until a skinned knee needed a kiss;
where I'm certain I'd seen him, now balding,
the kid from around the corner,
holding hands with a European