The House On Tryon Street – #PoetryMonth 2018 – April 25

The House On Tryon Street
Sometimes I think I miss my childhood home,
halfway up the hill on Tryon Street.

Always in motion, Larry and I raced countless laps
starting with frantic leaps down the broad, creaky steps
of the wrap-around porch
which seemed, like the Golden Gate Bridge,
and like the house itself,
to be in a perpetual state of
half newly painted red or yellow or gray, and
half curling, peeling strips of weathered other-color.

A sprint across the pitted driveway,
a slalom through the saplings down the hill
to the dried-up drainage ditch where the pansies grew,
then up the stones dodging the neighbors’ chickens
(though who was dodging whom, really?)
to climb the catapult tree until it bent under our willow weight
and delivered us again to the grassless path
for a foolhardy careen back down the lumpy hill
past the sand box graveyard of dozens of Hot Wheels cars,
launching with a whoop off the stone wall near the forsythia bush
where the plastic army men held their summer battles,
into a dead run around the water-fight west lawn,
galloping back to the rear of the patient wrap-around porch,
to clamber up and over its balance-beam rail
and stampede along its stretching balustrade
where we used to stand in the spring to listen
for the pale thunder of distant river ice cracking in the thaw,
finally returning to our starting line
at the top of the broad, creaky steps.

Sometimes I think I miss my childhood home,
but in my heart I know that what I really miss,
of course,
is my childhood.

Poetry Month 2018
I’ve resolved a few times to write a poem a day during the month of April, and I actually succeeded once. I’m again trying it out. No idea what each day will bring. Some light verse, some politics, some “oh shit I didn’t write anything today” haikus. If you read one and feel moved to comment, please do. If you want to share your poetry, please share!
PS: Today’s poem prompt was provided by Kymberlie
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