The concrete slab
In the valley of hills
Was a haven highway
For tricycle rides
The basketball court
Where last-second shots
Were born or died in glory.
He often saw his father
Through double-pane glass sliding doors
Dribbling the worn leather ball
Stacking bricks that flew
In arcs from the edge of the rim
Trails of salt on his sun-tanned skin.
The slab was smooth and greyish white
Was quite the beautiful sight
No cracks, ridges, bumps
No bubbles that popped into holes or clumps
No wild grass sprouting from seams
Only wonder and play in dreams.
In the night
He listened to sounds
Of crickets chirping
The howling next door
From Shar Pei hounds
Saw neon green glow
From the ends of firefly tales
A trail of green
When he ran, stepped on one there
Looked back and stared.
As is with the will of time
The slab began to wear
To crack, tear
Scratch and grow dappled
Nature always has its way
Unlike his father
who grew wrinkled and silver
Can jump no longer
Has a hole in his neck
Nearly lost to a stroke.
Now the backboard is faded
The screws the color of blood
Unpaved areas, though grassy
Are often filled with brown mud.
The bike is in the basement
Still in immaculate shape
Now his children can use it
As if by fate.
The alone bike is no longer lonely
Has a new friend
Will continue to be passed down
Be a trusty companion
Until the end of days.
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