written By
Inside my old man’s feet are feet
of a boy. (I can’t say small; I
was never small; 12 pounds at birth.)
These invisible feet remember
sensations I’ve forgotten:
The mystery of the squishy bottom
of the creek behind our house,
black-eyed bodies swarming,
slippery—some day they would be frogs.
The tickle of blowing dust
adding a layer to shoeless feet
inches away from home plate,
a Louisville Slugger perched
on a shoulder, waiting for the soldier
home on leave
to heave an underhanded floater
across the middle of the plate, smash it,
hard and far, flying over the English Ivy
that doubles as a backyard fence—
a screech of tires and a blaring horn
lets me know I’ve hit a dinger—
Racing toward home, tears
streaming, red ants in pursuit of my
bare feet, leaping over sprinklers,
left-out lawnmowers, and little-used rakes.
Back then, a kid, praying for relief,
halfway between God and bedevilment.
But not now. Now, there is no Slugger
on my shoulder. I see a steeple
from a window. Ants are on the sill.
My walker isn’t designed for steeplechase.
