Joe

Old poetry: I began this in spring 2006, about a family who was a neighbor at the time.

Joe

Pat, pat, pat.
Of an average height,
an average guy
with an average life
plays coach for one tonight.

Leathery pat, pat, pat.
‘You gotta move, Joe.’

Part of the pack,
the puppy races
between the boy of eight
and the boy of twenty-eight,
keeping missed catches for herself.

Gravel rumbles with traction.
After    the   ball,  ball, ball.

Joe’s voice is his mother’s yet,
unaware, intentional.
He narrows his eyes,
throws himself into the air
and through the   b   a    l     l.

‘There you go!
Perfect throw, Joe.’

©Sandra Davidson 03 Feb 2008

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