Perhaps it was November,
\na Saturday morning.
\nI ate berry pie at the diner,
\nacross the street,
\nwhere railroad tracks
\nand a playground ran
\nalong the right-of-way.
\nIt returns to me,
\nthis gray and cool morning,
\nnot cold.
\nThe air feels damp.<\/p>\n
I am a man of many childhoods
\nand old age longings,
\nrecorded like tree rings inside me.
\nMy sister fed my brother and me,
\nsecret treats,
\nfor two poor boys,
\n\u2013 a poor sister,
\nwho waited on counter,
\nblackberry pie and hamburgers.<\/p>\n
I taste the blackberries.
\nI remember my sister\u2019s hands,
\njuke box music
\nin the background.
\nThe mood of a child
\nlooking down the street
\nfull of her goodness,
\nleaving a diner,
\nready to play.
\nAn old man
\ndrinking coffee in his yard,
\nwatching her,
\nat the window of the diner
\nwaving good-by.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Perhaps it was November, a Saturday morning. I ate berry pie at the diner, across the street, where railroad tracks and a playground ran along…<\/p>\n