Snapshots of 1998
I’m the last “man” on the field
at recess, throwing footballs,
blocking hockey shots, playing
kickball.
I have an autographed
photo of the Pirate’s catcher on my
dresser and attend every game.
It will be at least two years before I
find anything girly appealing.
I’m 11, living in a city of steel.
Yet even from an early age I know
this place, this city, isn’t home.
It’s where I’ll pass my formative
years, while I long for: stirring
sunsets, bike rides on the peninsula
and campground living.
I try to cover bruises under long sleeve shirts,
Practice with that bat every chance I get
Think of a sickening thunk over skull
while the man I am supposed to call
dad lies at my feet with the paddle
intended for me lies on the ground
beside him. Always a tennis player,
my young body serves as that ball
more times than it’s possible to count.
