small poems & small plates
Wandering the realm of my childhood, I recall a fence painted in many colors, and stealing the cigarette butts of my parents' partygoers, tasting their leftover cocktails and becoming sick with new knowledge, new tastes. I rode my bike holding onto a wooden box of baseball cards, and fell, cutting my lip. The scar remains. I do not know what became of my baseball card collection, or the baseball signed by the new york yankees acquired on a day at the field. Pictures show a small girl bundled in a catcher's uniform, the front cushioned in the form of a caterpillar, the face hidden by a mask, the knees bent over sneakers, the glove held up to receive the awful thud of a softball. They let her play anytime, in daylight or dusk, out in the yards of many houses, many years ago.