Inside my old man’s feet are feet of a boy. (I can’t say small; I was never small; 12 pounds at birth.) These invisible feet remember sensations I’ve forgotten: The mystery of the squishy bottom of the creek behind our house, black-eyed bodies swarming, slippery—some day they would be frogs. The tickle of blowing dust adding a layer to shoeless feet inches away from home plate, a Louisville Slugger perched on a shoulder, waiting for the soldier home on leave to heave an underhanded floater across the middle of the plate, smash it, hard and far, flying over the English Ivy that doubles as a backyard fence— a screech of tires and a blaring horn lets me know I’ve hit a dinger— Racing toward home, tears streaming, red ants in pursuit of my bare feet, leaping over sprinklers, left-out lawnmowers, and little-used rakes. Back then, a kid, praying for relief, halfway between God and bedevilment. But not now. Now, there is no Slugger on my shoulder. I see a steeple from a window. Ants are on the sill. My walker isn’t designed for steeplechase.
W. Barrett Munn is a graduate of The Institute of Children's Literature where he studied writing under Larry Callen. His poetry has been published in Awakenings Review, San Antonio Review, Copperfield Review Quarterly, Volney Road Review, Speckled Trout Review, New Verse News, Book of Matches, and many others.
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