I knew a stretch where maples leaned,
Where sidewalks split, and grass broke through,
And boys with gloves and fraying seams
Made day from dust, and dusk from dew.
No clock declared when play began,
The hour arrived when heat gave way.
We gathered in our common plan:
To steal the sun and spend the day.
With Anthony, Pat, and John-John too,
And Tony rounding out the crew,
We stood where elm and asphalt met -
Our kingdom small, our borders true.
The bat would sing, the ball would fly,
Down driveways soft with tar and heat,
And Mrs. Gray would raise her cry -
Yet never stopped our scuffing feet.
The sewer lids, our bases worn,
The curb our bench, the hedge our stand.
We ruled a field the world would scorn -
But held it firm with heart and hand.
At dusk, when bats replaced the ball,
And fireflies woke beneath the trees,
We’d watch them spark and fade, and fall -
Small lanterns caught in evening’s breeze.
They pulsed like something half-remembered,
A promise brief, and softly shown;
And in that glow we dimly measured
How much of light we’d made our own.
Now years have gone, the street’s been changed,
The maples cut, the hedges trimmed,
Yet in my thought, the game’s arranged...
Its edges blurred, its colors dimmed.
No fame was ours, no grand parade,
No trophies etched with what we did.
Just fireflies flashing as we played -
Their signal bright, then gone, then hid.
And sometimes still, when night turns sweet,
And porch lamps hum with summer’s heat,
I see those sparks along the street -
The boys, the dust, the dark, repeat.
GBS
1994
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