I awake after midnight
drop out your bedroom
window the neighborhood
dark and dead and foggy
and slip home a solo raven
of friendly unkindnesses.
The sobbing streets sleep
empty I see no one no one
sees me no cars no lights
the night air cool marine
past Willy’s and Russell’s
and Center Street School.
I slide into bed and dream
I’m at the baseball park
the score tied one to one
at the 7th inning stretch
on the mound Big Joe
the hurler who stares
down for the sign at the plate
bat twirling Hickory Windmill
round tears flow from the polder
water rises and falls with mood
the full reservoir now empty
begins slowly to refill.
Over the crowd a hush
the umpire checks the ball
for spit and hokum
then the pitch and swing
and the rushing scale
of the humongous pipe
organ and the gigantic
Grand Slam! the rising
crush of the crowd
in the ballpark stands
cheers and tears nuts
amid spilled beers.
At dawn Dad shakes
me up and out of bed
Saturday no school
and I’m to help him
install the porcelain
tubs out in the Valley.
The Coming of the Toads 