Carl Boon
We lean against sugar maples
and listen to our parents’
transistor radios on the porches.
Do you remember that static,
delicious, that music,
those voices of adults
in decline? You were choosing
dandelions for soup;
I was tossing a tennis ball
in the pines, hoping
it would return, hoping
to be Joe Charboneau
in left field at Municipal Stadium.
Or—in your denim jumper—
you simply sat down, waiting
for everyone to go away.
I counted the cars
going down Third Street,
wishing the weather were warm
enough for shorts,
wishing I had a dog—until
the season’s first mosquitoes
came and we quietly went inside.
Clamor 