Between shadow and my twelfth year
The boys are face down in the grass,
September's pint-sized insurgents
Under dove season's gray sky.
Dying instead of shooting.
A report of their amusement
Is breaking: "Let's play like
We're shot by a firing squad
Back there in Benny's yard."
This game is not exactly ended
When grandma ladles out doves
And the supper table grows so solemn
And the boys are beset with warnings
To watch out for buckshot.
No comments:
Post a Comment