air colder than it is heavy
heaviness attached to memories
of shinny games played
with friends playing like
stars players of the day.

The names changed but the
friends didn't, the rivalries,
were more than East to West,
but who was seen as the best
on ice or roadway on that day
in our surreal play.

Ball, sticks and net,
the best game yet,
on suburb roads, icy or clear,
competition was intense, no fear,
like losing once,
to win again another time, the next night.

It wasn't about victory or loss,
it took skill and staring across,
at your opponent, to make him
look away and maybe give in,
before the game began.

street lights and stars lit our arena
found on Silivia or Olivia
framed in two curbs of concrete
the game was never called on account
of rain or snow or ice, we only
paused for
when some one called,
"Car!",
a goal or to chase the ball shot out of
bounds,                                                       ­ (you shot or touched it
                                                              ­          last it was only fair,
                                                           ­             you chased it down...
                                                         ­              all the way down the street)


Of course we lost our stars
when the parents called them
in for dinner... but even then
we stayed late knowing in the
cold our plate of food would be
warm,

as these memories,
wet jeans and socks, flushed
face, fingers and toes were
sometimes colder than
the frosty distance,
the empty streets,
the orange ball frozen so
it did not bounce,
but always either
made a mark, or
made its mark,

with the echo over
our heads in the
frosty air "Ggoooaaaalllll"
or not so subtle, "he scores!"
and the run back to your
team of friends and celebrate
the celebration seen on TV
on Saturday nights.

addendum:the cracks in the street where the tar repair didn't take,
holds my memories where I can see and touch and reach into them
once again.


©DWE092013