My Brother and I
I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you,
As no one knows about when
We used to walk on the light grey rolling curbs,
On the black gravel streets with the quilt of sidewalks alongside.
The moon and only one star was out to glance down at
What we were partaking in.
The feeble attempt at comedy,
With our swinging of long splintered two- by-fours.
They resembled our youth that was filled
With images of gleaming daggers dancing through the air,
And the crackling of light sabers in the movies.
Down in the basement,
White ceiling tiles above us,
And our old blue rug with bunches of red flowers.
Our favorite object in the entire house,
A ping-pong table in the traditional green color,
On top of a mahogany pool table with blue felt.
Oh, how the hours wasted away when we would play.
Chores, Bed times, homework, nothing
Seemed relevant as we caressed the ball back and forth
To each other in a manner of different strokes,
Each as fluid and quick as the last.
Red on one side, black on the other,
Cheap cedar wood extends out from the foam
To form my single weapon in this game.
We had a dream of always moving it outside,
The wind and the trees could swirl our hair around as we
Cinch our eyes tight on the ball as it returns to our side of the table.
But we could never haul it through the tiny glass door,
And so our dream was crushed.
So it shall remain,
In our basement,
With all the other lockers and T.V.s,
The one thing that connect my brother and me the most,
Our ping-pong table.
Copyright © Gregory Wajda | Year Posted 2007
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