Midmorning Break
My mother had ten. We darted
in and out from under her wings.
She smoked cigarettes and drank
tea that had cooled — a sip and a smoke
while we ran in and out,
yard-noise filtering in
to where she sat mid-morning,
still at the table after
we’d gone off to school
and the baby (which baby?)
asleep in a bassinet
in the dining room, the two
and four-year olds
amusing themselves
with baking pans.
147 First Street
Close to my mind, I’m a kid
on the curb watching bigger boys
play one-on-one in Jimmy’s
driveway, banging up against
the single basket screwed to the garage.
On the curb I’m between things —
the house behind me full of sibs,
summer evenings getting shorter
and I haven’t quite figured out
girls yet. Thinking, perhaps,
about the last thing that happened
or what the old man said I had to do
before I left. But Jimmy’s
got the ball and Cliffie’s
poking him and in a minute
that ball’s going to slam down
on Cliffie’s back and the game
will dissolve. Jimmy’s mother
will flip on the overhead spotlight
on her way through the house
to make a fresh drink.
By then, I’ll be gone, up to the attic
bedroom where the little ones
aren’t allowed. I’ll be there
straight through college, my brothers’
and sisters’ voices growing deeper
and louder in the street below.
William O’Connell has lived in the Pioneer Valley in Massachusetts since 1984.
He writes: A retired social worker, I teach literature and writing at Greenfield Community College. Publications: When We Were All Still Alive (Open Field Press 2021); Sakonnet Point (Plinth Books 2011); and On The Map To Your Life (Dytiscid Press 1992) plus poems in anthologies and literary magazines such as The Sun, Poetry East, Colorado Review, Green Mountains Review, etc.
Image: Photo by David Sager on Unsplash
