BY CARL BOON
Copyright is held by the author.
The boy on 71st Street
who plays all day
with his trucks and rocks
must find solace in home.
He is me, and we together
must gather our toys
and loves and wait.
The rain is coming;
the street will run
with what we leave —
the miscellaneous of days
when the sun shone,
the broken radios,
the balloons of youth.
I watch the hills tonight,
but he may be sleeping,
gathering in dreams
what his hands cannot.
I wish I could tell him
there’s so much to gather
you’ll never have enough time.
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