cincibuck
You kids stay off my lawn!
A Thanksgiving Eve
Nine of us gathered at Foster's driveway.
In the background,
lights blazed in kitchens as Moms baked pies,
diced onions,
set the Jell-O salad on the bottom shelf of the Fridge.
Fathers ran last-minute errands for The Forgotten:
napkins, candles, yams or olives,
Or settled into easy chairs,
stocking footed,
beer in hand,
blue glowing TVs easing them down from work.
We warmed up.
Dribbled balls thumped off cold hardened concrete.
Changing voices reverberated off the sides of close set homes,
Chuck Taylor All-Stars squeaked
as we ran, stopped, jumped
and arced the orange ball into the black sky.
Our shadows skated across the floor,
moved with us in strange, elongated forms,
waxing and waning, criss-crossing, as we scooted between the two sets of floodlights.
Foul shots to determine sides,
Three teams of three,
nickels and dimes spin in the air,
"Odd man out."
More squeaks from sneakers,
only one ball thumping now.
'Switch! Switch!"
"Don't just stand there!"
"Pick him up! Pick him up!"
"Our ball, our ball."
Swish!
Our breath floated over the game,
Our hands turned red,
Cold sweat took a chilling ride down our flannel shirted backs,
The team with next rattled and shivered in their winter coats,
flexed up and down on their toes,
gazed down from the porch.
"Who's going to cover Ed?"
"I got him."
"OK!"
"I'll take Greg."
Blew steamy breath across their hands,
thrust them back deep inside coat pockets,
shivered again.
Dogs barked.
The melancholy whistle of a fast fading B&O freight drifted up from the tracks,
more than a mile away,
on the far side of the corn shocks standing sentinel in the State Farm field.
We played,
hard,
furious.
We argued,
settled,
then played on and on.
Till voices,
tired of all the chatter,
the eternal thumping in unpredictable, non-rhythmic, basketball cadences,
got up from the easy chair,
walked to the kitchen door,
shouted across the backyards,
"Woody!"
"Phil!"
"Greg and Gary!"
"Wally!"
"Arnold and Jerry!"
"Coming, Dad!"
We walked back to warm Cape Cods,
To frost windowed kitchens
To the cinnamon, all spice and clove breathe of ovens.
To black and white holiday specials,
dancing and singing,
live from somewhere in New York.
To families we did not yet know we loved.
To routines we did not yet know defined us.
To Thanksgiving.
Forrest Brandt, 11/25/2003
Nine of us gathered at Foster's driveway.
In the background,
lights blazed in kitchens as Moms baked pies,
diced onions,
set the Jell-O salad on the bottom shelf of the Fridge.
Fathers ran last-minute errands for The Forgotten:
napkins, candles, yams or olives,
Or settled into easy chairs,
stocking footed,
beer in hand,
blue glowing TVs easing them down from work.
We warmed up.
Dribbled balls thumped off cold hardened concrete.
Changing voices reverberated off the sides of close set homes,
Chuck Taylor All-Stars squeaked
as we ran, stopped, jumped
and arced the orange ball into the black sky.
Our shadows skated across the floor,
moved with us in strange, elongated forms,
waxing and waning, criss-crossing, as we scooted between the two sets of floodlights.
Foul shots to determine sides,
Three teams of three,
nickels and dimes spin in the air,
"Odd man out."
More squeaks from sneakers,
only one ball thumping now.
'Switch! Switch!"
"Don't just stand there!"
"Pick him up! Pick him up!"
"Our ball, our ball."
Swish!
Our breath floated over the game,
Our hands turned red,
Cold sweat took a chilling ride down our flannel shirted backs,
The team with next rattled and shivered in their winter coats,
flexed up and down on their toes,
gazed down from the porch.
"Who's going to cover Ed?"
"I got him."
"OK!"
"I'll take Greg."
Blew steamy breath across their hands,
thrust them back deep inside coat pockets,
shivered again.
Dogs barked.
The melancholy whistle of a fast fading B&O freight drifted up from the tracks,
more than a mile away,
on the far side of the corn shocks standing sentinel in the State Farm field.
We played,
hard,
furious.
We argued,
settled,
then played on and on.
Till voices,
tired of all the chatter,
the eternal thumping in unpredictable, non-rhythmic, basketball cadences,
got up from the easy chair,
walked to the kitchen door,
shouted across the backyards,
"Woody!"
"Phil!"
"Greg and Gary!"
"Wally!"
"Arnold and Jerry!"
"Coming, Dad!"
We walked back to warm Cape Cods,
To frost windowed kitchens
To the cinnamon, all spice and clove breathe of ovens.
To black and white holiday specials,
dancing and singing,
live from somewhere in New York.
To families we did not yet know we loved.
To routines we did not yet know defined us.
To Thanksgiving.
Forrest Brandt, 11/25/2003
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