dreamed up by eight year old grandson in our back yard
using the power line that diagonals
our expansive yard
dropkicking a ball
a little larger than a tangerine and
us trying to catch it
notwithstanding the sun in our eyes
everyone plays
an agglomerate of young and old
to the delight of boy
we play until the light of the moon takes over and
we can’t see the wire anymore and
we relive our antics until the
sky turns sable with pinprick of rural stars
this is the last time we play
because we are moving to a milquetoast house
in the city with no wire and a small fenced backyard
still the boy tries to come up with a plan
so many memories
like watching the kids zip around the house
each with a pinecone in hand
wireball will be missed
boy’s memory romanticized to quadruple its size
our new home a shell of our former selves
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