A Walk In The Sun Sonnet

A Walk In The Sun Sonnet

We walked you rowhouse home. The sun shone bright
on skinny arms and soft much-freckled squint.
Pale thirteen; voice gawk-creaking, roundsure-eyed:
“I love to football! Ev’ry thing ’bout it!:
To don the pads and cleats; the damp grass smell;
I love to run, to hit, break tackles, juke!”
I, something shorter but less spindle-ish
and harder than wobbly, uncentered you,
did nod in sunshine, bricks red alley gray,
supposing myself a greater bird of prey.

I see you’ve grown up rugged sure
with muscles, stamina, fire power
A warrior trained and tested too
I feel us all time-arcing through.

I was wrong; haughty little boys
are always misinformed by impulse
broad and shallow, born in the body,
stamped in the brain, forgetful of,
negligent to,
distant from
the soul
and its wise
steady careful counsel


[Bartleby’s Poetry Corner]

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