Jenkins

The old fart would yell from his wicker chair

up on the rotting, wooden porch he thought was

a throne, scolding us kids playing baseball

in the street. We used to ignore him or yell

back at him to zip his mouth – some even

threw rocks in his direction and then we would

all scatter as he went inside to call the police

and I would run downhill, though my house

was the other way, just to retrieve my

tattered baseball so we could play again

tomorrow and I would wonder if I could

make it home before the cops showed up.