of words unsaid

I whispered sorry

to a stone.


The crisp of leaves

scoffed at my penance

when I walked away


We reminisced about growing up

on Blanchard Road.

I remembered sneaking peeks

of the neighborhood kids playing

kick the can

from a blue rocking-chair on the porch

above the garage, hiding in the shadows

of the old oak tree with my pile of books,

high above the street.

I planned my escape to the countryside

with a mouse and a cricket from Times Square,

while he produced and directed Star Wars,

alone in his room high above the porch,

his empty triangle space-ship hands

flailing and poking air, at war

with each other, in an epic battle

between good and evil where no

one was ever hurt.     

We laughed until

we cried.