Song From The House On West Nelson Street

The children holding themselves around the ribcage
and giving a some-toothed smile, running
until they fell,
and we were caught very much unawares,
holding the flower they gave us,
realizing age.

The only something I regret is not jumping
more into the arms of my mother,
looking through her cut glass earrings
at the passing cars.
And my grandfather would eat peanuts
with the shells and bottles around him

and a baseball game on the television.
Formerly a would-be war hero,
in the telling at least.
We ran back and forth from the kitchen
to get him another Budweiser,
slipping on the crooked floors.

To have something like this:
Little scars take parts of my face
from brother-fights. A way to see
how happy I was in a backyard,
next to the regional high school
where we could light piles of leaves on fire,

scale the brick monoliths and holler
with our power. I spent a whole day
in my closet, counting the times
I had been in love. When the door
swung open everyone was waiting for the emergency,
and I think I half-upset them by being alright.

For maybe one second
that kid heart, dizzy with excitement,
fell back to me, its owner.