November 22, 1963
A common-born child
was changed by the death
of a man one day.
Back in the 60's,
(I remember.)
when barefoot kids
were called in,
from carefree play.
A rowdy, raucous group,
(Tag, you're 'it' No! Tag,
I got you back.)
tumbling into the backdoor,
in answer to Momma's call.
I, being first inside,
pulled up short,
knowing something
just wasn't right.
The deep voice of a man
was blaring from the radio.
(No country songs playing
quietly while she worked.)
She hushed us sharply.
Then, I saw her face, palled
and drawn, having saucer eyes,
as when hot clouded coffee
is poured out to cool.
(I had never met her fear before.)
The words of the announcer echoed
across a hollow room,
“President John F Kennedy,
the thirty-fifth president
of the United States
died today...”
Even I the youngest, could catch
the significance of what we heard,
that somber day the country reeled.
(The punch in the gut struck me as well.)
On Friday, November 22, 1963
my innocence of childhood left,
and while standing barefoot
in a poor man's house,
I felt kinship with the world.
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