The chalk out on the sidewalk here is fresh –
It’s smell is one I’ve known since I was small –
By concrete courts where shoes are heard to squeak
In rolling games of pick-up basketball
I’m older now, but here I’m still a boy:
For this is home, in part, no matter where
I might be else. Reminders all around –
(I fell in love the first time over there)
For I am hobbled now with age and wear:
Nobody second looks at some old troll
Who looks defeated by the cares of life.
No signs of who he was – no outward soul —
But age, this place, have taught me wrong from right —
And I would not go back in time, despite
This is a prompted post.
