Imaginary home plate was just off the back stoop.
I tossed a rock up a yard or so and as it fell
I whacked it with my stick
and watched its skyward arch -
conjuring fantasies of Tiger Stadium.
The phantom crowd stood and roared.
“It looks like a long one folks - going, going ...”
CRACK!
Mr. McCrary’s garage window
splintered into a thousand shards.
My stadium vanished and I was naked in the garden -
desperate for a fig leaf.
I fled into the house (where I could not hide)
shaking with mortal dread
and not being catholic, I had no choice
but to confess my sin to my actual father.
Dad cradled my terror in his hands
and led me to Mr. McCrary’s back porch
where I knocked then stammered out my sorrys.
Soon, with dad as foreman,
I chiseled, measured and glazed away
until Mr. McCrary’s window
was entirely healed and restored.
Pushing the mower a half year later
I sensed movement across the fence
and looked up to find myself
staring into old man McCrary's eyes -
My guilty heart shivered as I
braced for the verbal thunder to follow.
But there would be no storm.
The old man's face softened into a smile;
he tipped his hat and pressed his *** into the soil.
Please consider checking out my book, Unity Tree - available from Amazon.com in both book and Kindle formats.
