It's getting dark early again. The
street lamps are on by dinner.
Soon the memory of piles of
leaves, the smell of Fall and
the call to jump in the whispering
auburn heaps of my youth
would jolt me.
I am old now and fat. The
ritual of Autumn's call to
the dark evenings that were
an invitation to the holidays,
is a calling cocktail.
The rains drained the ashes
into the sidewalk gutters. The
hopscotch grid fades as day
light melts and I lose the
game.
Games are like drifts of scents
across the light post's shadow.
They are the ephemeral
recipes of my New York
youth. I walk to the edges
of the grass reading the
folded paper fortunes that
told me I would marry Jack
someday. I didn't. I threw
the lined prediction in the
leaves, scuffed my brown
shoes on the sidewalk
never dreaming that real
life would crinkle like the
ruled paper forgeries.
Caroline Shank
Aug 12, 2022
Aug 12, 2022 at 8:46 PM UTC
It's getting dark early again. The
street lamps are on by dinner.
Soon the memory of piles of
leaves, the smell of Fall and
the call to jump in the whispering
auburn heaps of my youth
would jolt me.
I am old now and fat. The
ritual of Autumn's call to
the dark evenings that were
an invitation to the holidays,
is a calling cocktail.
The rains drained the ashes
into the sidewalk gutters. The
hopscotch grid fades as day
light melts and I lose the
game.
Games are like drifts of scents
across the light post's shadow.
They are the ephemeral
recipes of my New York
youth. I walk to the edges
of the grass reading the
folded paper fortunes that
told me I would marry Jack
someday. I didn't. I threw
the lined prediction in the
leaves, scuffed my brown
shoes on the sidewalk
never dreaming that real
life would crinkle like the
ruled paper forgeries.
Caroline Shank
Request permission to use this poem