Visiting Winfield in My 30’s

There’s no blood on the concrete, and the houses

don’t smell like the homes I used to imagine

myself living in. The yards aren’t decorated with

Our bikes, basketballs, and the tools used to

build the nostalgia and memories that make

me want to call my old (friends?) so that we

can all remember, joke, smile, laugh, replace

tears with awkward silence, and ask what

happened to the (bond?) that we all shared.

There’s no blood on the concrete, but I still

see the curb, the streets, and the grass that

knows our children through the last name basis.

I see the basketball goals that are collecting

the same rust that is building in my knees and vibrancy.

All the red dirt has been married off to

pavement, numbers, and dreams of vibrancy

that America tells us we deserve once we’re born.

There’s no blood on the concrete, but I’m sure

somebody's son will find a reason to change that,

and another’s son will be the one that learns the

laws of any jungle on Earth, the hard way. When

I come home, I see the wind and taste my old

need to find stained glass ceilings and sun-stained

dreams only young people have the time to chew on.

The fat lost all its flavor once the streetlights turned on.

Published by: In Parentheses Fall Volume 7-Issue 2