Sidewalks

Someday; this will be mine
This cold salted slab
An extension of myself.
It will crack and freeze,
In the fall it’ll cover
With red and pale orange leaves
In the summer it’ll clutter
With mothers and stroller babies.

I’ll live in these suburban castles,
And kiss my wife goodnight--
A ritual of eightteen years
From our wedding night.
We’ll be fighting our heavy
Eyelids, about half past nine
We’ve got to get up early
We’ll be working nine to five.

I’ll carpet bare floor.
Fine art will cling to my walls.
And I’ll slide the deadbolt,
To keep the outside out.
I’ll sit by the brick fire
Reading from its warm light.
One of my countless volumes
That my towering bookcase stores.

I’ll be a family man.
I’ll leave bright blue bulbs
Along my fine French doors.
Like harbor reflections of moonlight,
They’ll stay long past the new year
Breaking away the dak night
From my red minivan

And its double sliding doors.
I’ll read to Steve
And ask him what he’ll be;
Then I’ll sing to Suzie,
Before sending her to sleep.
I’ll wonder what they’re dreaming,
Their breathing steady and soft;
I’ll loose track of their sizes;
Lord, they used to be so small.

I’ll stand in the warmth behind
My double picture window,
Looking at what I’ve shoveled
A few hours before.
Remember leaning a shovel
On my hardy potbelly
And thinking to myself
“Why’d I do this for?”

And I’ll snap back to my window,
My study light casting a glow.
Then I’ll see him running;
Hooded head head sprinkled with snow.
I’ll see his breath
Frozen life, rejoining air,
And I’ll wonder if he
Is the boy I used to be.

 

Devin Stevens

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