This was written to use the line: "The boy shuffled his feet through the autumn leaves" in a poem of any style. I guess this is narrative.


Last Game

The boy shuffled his feet through the autumn leaves.
The last game of the season had ended;
defeat was all over his Charlie-Brownish face.

The autumn sun was shining down,
he didn’t seem to notice;
it caused golden leaves to glisten
as the breeze lifted them to and fro.

His eyes, however, could see only the brown
that deepened and furrowed his frown.
He spotted his favorite boulder,
stopped, lay down his bat and mitt and sat.

He was glad, at least,
that his dad hadn’t comeafter all.
It was their worst game of the year,
not one he’d want his dad to remember.

A crow cawed overhead;
a family of ducks swam along the stream.
The sunlight, the stream’s trickle
over the rocks, set him to dream.

He felt a hand on his shoulder,
there on the boulder,
smelled a scent he remembered,
felt a hug that encouraged.

“I’m sorry, Son,” that I was late.
“I was driving in as you walked out the gate.
The score told the tale
why your head hung so low;
I wanted to give you some time
to let your sadness go.”

“It’s okay, Dad, it was not a good game.
I’m glad that you missed it; it was all pretty lame.”

“More games will come, and, Son, so will I.
How ‘bout us getting a big pizza pie?”

“I’m not very hungry, but
with olives and stuff? Could we have
a big Pepsi and double thick crust??

“Sure, and we’ll stop at the dairy
and get a surprise to bring home to Mom
and the rest of the guys!”

©September 21, 2004