“While others cycled to dusty fields,/sported bats and mitts, shouted to claim/their favorite positions, I was alone,/my red Schwinn and me—no/deception of ritual, no useless chatter,/no bad calls, no vicarious parents.”
My Red Schwinn
On the sill above the kitchen sink,
next to the porcelain Virgin, within a
tiptoe stretch, mother’s cigarettes waited
for me to steal, hiding one behind
each ear. After the heist, my red Schwinn
and I chased cloud shadows over yellow
bricks, traveled to whitewater rivers,
steamy jungles, wandered through a sky
so blue. I sped past the town doctor
who looked above his newspaper.
I imagined he knew what I was up to.
The stern glare of a suspicious neighbor
never slowed me.
While others cycled to dusty fields,
sported bats and mitts, shouted to claim
their favorite positions, I was alone,
my red Schwinn and me—no
deception of ritual, no useless chatter,
no bad calls, no vicarious parents.
Down a dirt road to the town dump,
the rush of adrenaline as I lit up,
a ten-year-old who waited for dusk
when bats would circle above rusted
washers and dryers, building scraps,
broken toys, and scattered car parts.
They’d dive toward the stones I threw,
but I could never hit one of them.
And safe in bed I’d remember stones
pitched that day, dreamed of whitewater
rivers, steamy jungles, a sky so blue,
chased cloud shadows along the way,
and no one speaking to me,
I’d never listen anyway.
Bird Shot
Shooting upwards from the streets
like partisans liberating Paris,
the killers steady themselves
on Chevys, Buicks, and T-Birds,
or lean against trees, carefully aim
and smile and smile filling
wicker baskets creaking full
of the invasive enemy, warm,
like line-dried clothing plucked
clean from a summer wire, fluttering
then deadweight gathering. Like a shot
through sun-bleached rows of laundry,
those who will one day call these times
ancient take aim with toy guns and smile
and smile, warm in the August sun.
Delivered from the cruelty, liberation
never a fair fight, streets run frothy pink
with doused blood, the smell like rain
on hard-baked earth, they take aim,
steady themselves for the deadweight
gathering, smiling as birthright compels,
warm in the blood sun, sons of men
who will one day call these times ancient,
take aim and smile and smile.
William R. Stoddart is a Pushcart nominated writer from Southwestern Pennsylvania. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Valparaiso Poetry Review, North Dakota Quarterly, The New York Quarterly, and South Florida Poetry Journal. His fiction has appeared in Litro, Molotov Cocktail, Literally Stories, and other publications.
