It’s hot summer in the teeming city with tenements piled room-on-room. With narrow hallways and nonexistent grassy plots, where’s a kid to play?
Home Plate: Sweet Victory
They’re playing baseball in the street again, forcing cars to wait, restless in the intersection, ’til they see the fate of the ball the bat just cracked, rising in the air to land in someone’s flower pot or on the tenement stair. They make such a brouhaha, loud boys and louder cars, that Grandma rises up a bit to clutch at window bars.
It is a large commitment, for she can’t sit down again without some help, but still she is attracted by the din. Are car horns blaring for the inconvenience or a homer? The batter’s mad dash down the street and back a slight misnomer, for first base is the red car and second base the yellow. Cross the street and third base is the stair stoop of the fellow
who exits from his doorway, briefcase in his hand, who seems in a great hurry and yet chooses to stand to see the runner execute his skipping zigzag run homeward toward the batter’s plate that holds a sticky bun. Horns blaring as he executes his mission, ends his flight, bends over, grabs his trophy, and takes his winning bite!
My shoes go out without me. They do it all the time, and do the things I never do. They jog. They hike. They climb. When I wake up I find them strewn throughout the house— one flip flop on the counter. High heels beneath my blouse that’s flung across the table where I don’t remember putting it. I bet they’ve been out dancing—two-stepping and high-footing it.
When my cowboy boots go riding, I’d like to go along. I’m pretty sure, however, they think things would go wrong. Perhaps the horse would throw me or I’d wind up getting lost. I’m sorry that I bought them, considering the cost! Other people are the boss of all their clothes and shoes, but when my shoes and I face off, I am the one to lose.
I could take to going barefoot. This would work while at the beach. Then when all my shoes are out far beyond my reach, into the surf I’ll wade and then wander out again, trapping sand between my toes everywhere I’ve been.
So when my shoes get home at night, they’ll be completely clueless that I’ve left them out as well by venturing out shoeless!
Here’s to the letter “C” that marks what is in the middle. Somewhere between “A” and “F,” it has been known to fiddle. While “A” studies most diligently, “C” is bound to shirk. It has a certain phobia regarding too much work. It’s head and shoulders above “F” and far better than “D.” Nobody ever flunked a course by maintaining a “C.”
And yet it calls no sound its own. It’s either “K” or “S.” At birthday time, we’re given kake and winning brings suksess. We’re stopped dead in our trases. When we’re kissed, it’s a karess. Why “C” has no sound of its own, not one of us kan guess. When the sirkus komes to town, it’s happened onse or twise that the krokodiles eskape. It isn’t very nise.
Townfolks run and skurry—skared as they kan be, for katastrophes kan happen when krokodiles run free. It isn’t too konvenient, as you kan klearly see to be a kurly letter the likes of letter “C” that’s firmly in the middle, with no sound of its own. Does “C” dream of being “S” when it’s fully grown?
Though he excelled in decibels, his logic was found lacking and in the end came off as a futile sort of quacking. So when their tiff was over, all his ravings and his rantage didn’t seem to grant him a discernible advantage.
He dragged his feet along the floor until his brand new bride decided she’d her fill. She pulled his shoes off of his feet and said, “If I had known the truth when we were wed, I might have had a very different goal— to find a man who had a better sole instead of feet so swollen and so red. I might have had a cobbler’s son instead if I’d paid less attention to your bod and chosen me a groom much better shod!”
The groom’s family was titled and a bit anachronistic. So when they saw the bride, I fear they went a bit ballistic. Instead of white she wore a dress of scarlet oddly draped. The mother of the groom grew faint. Her husband merely gaped. She wore something archaic instead of merely old— her grandma’s feather boa—a bridal statement bold. Around her neck, a python, and her arms were densely bangled. Her veil pinned to a tractor hat of satin, oddly-angled. The brim turned back as though she were an umpire at a game. In short, the bride’s ensemble was anything but lame.
As she hip-hopped down the aisle to a tune by Kanye West, the groom stood fondly watching her in morning coat and vest. Her lipstick blue, her bustier was borrowed and conditional on return to its owner in a manner most traditional. To complete her fashion statement, her combat boots were blue, and if you’ve paid attention, you could guess that they were new! Her bouquet was fresh dandelions bound up with some chives. She held it in one hand and with the other, gave high fives to friends all up the aisle as she jerked her way on by. The groom’s mom gave a shudder and his father gave a sigh.
So did this modern wedding forsake the antiquated with customs much less stuffy, less predictable and dated. The wedding fare was tacos, Cuban sandwiches and chips, jelly beans and donuts, crudites and dips. No caviar or salmon. Just ribs and Tater Tots. The toasts to bride and groom were made with jello shots. The wedding cake was chocolate with custard between layers. Good wishes voiced by ministers, gurus and namaste’ers. In place of rice the bride and groom were showered with quinoa. In short, it was a wedding to rival mardi gras!