Letter to Brooks: Spring Garden

When you have forgotten (to bring into   

            Play that fragrant morsel of rhetoric,

Crisp as autumnal air), when you

            Have forgotten, say, sunlit corners, brick

            Full of skyline, rowhomes, smokestacks,

Billboards, littered rooftops & wondered   

What bread wrappers reflect of our hunger,

When you have forgotten wide-brimmed hats,

            Sunday back-seat leather rides & church,

The doorlock like a silver cane, the broad backs   

            Swaying or the great moan deep churning,

            & the shimmer flick of flat sticks, the lurch

Forward, skip, hands up Aileyesque drop,

When you have forgotten the meaningful bop,

Hustlers and their care-what-may, blasé

            Ballet and flight, when you have forgotten

Scruffy yards, miniature escapes, the way

            Laundry lines strung up sag like shortened

            Smiles, when you have forgotten the Fish Man

Barking his catch in inches up the street   

“I’ve got porgies. I’ve got trout. Feeesh

Man,” or his scoop and chain scale,   

            His belief in shad and amberjack; when   

You have forgotten Ajax and tin pails,

            Blue crystals frothing on marble front

            Steps Saturday mornings, or the garden

Of old men playing checkers, the curbs   

White-washed like two lines out to the burbs,

Or the hopscotch squares painted new

            In the street, the pitter-patter of feet   

Landing on rhymes. “How do you   

            Like the weather, girls? All in together, girls,

            January, February, March, April... ”

The jump ropes’ portentous looming,

Their great, aching love blooming.

When you have forgotten packs of grape-

            Flavored Now & Laters, the squares

Of sugar flattening on the tongue, the elation

            You felt reaching into the corner-store jar,   

            Grasping a handful of Blow Pops, candy bars

With names you didn’t recognize but came   

To learn. All the turf battles. All the war games.

When you have forgotten popsicle stick

            Races along the curb and hydrant fights,   

Then, retrieve this letter from your stack

            I’ve sent by clairvoyant post & read by light,

            For it brought me as much longing and delight.

This week’s Father’s Day; I’ve a long ride to Philly.

I’ll give this to Gramps, then head to Black Lily.