The pines out back speak their story in branches
Bending with the wait of witness and their close watch
For the loud import of childhood laughter
Shared like heavy plates serving dinner at night
While mom wondered how much longer
The floor could hold my two brothers and me,
Rough and tumbling in rumbles to see
Who could out-do who in brute-strength,
Pretending our victories like the buckle-shine of wrestling belts
Before offering our guts over to meatloaf and starch
And chugging more milk to fuel this march
On forward-moving streets toward new houses and homes
That could never quite keep us from moving away.
December 26, 2009
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