He studies the telephone
as muffled memories echo off the night…
squeals of children playing kickball
by lamplight in the abbreviated street between
his innocent past and uncertain now.
He is the tall skinny kid,
the one in patched-up knickers.
She, the animated one, kicks the ball,
trails him in laughter to the harbor
at the end of the street, beyond
the oyster boats lashed to the wharf,
where they watch the ball dancing
on moonlit tides in metric time.
Children’s games stilled, he
and she, serenaded by crickets,
sit in her porch swing speaking softly
of war and his departure.
She says she’ll write…everyday.
In distant seas,
oppressive days are gauged in radio signals,
battle stations, torpedoes, sub patrols,
slapping of waves on a ship’s hull,
typhoons, occasional call of a gull’s cry,
and letters that never come…
Bell bottoms,
battle ribbons,
war stories,
youth packed away
in moth balls….
he waits by the silent telephone.
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Anna
Carole~
sad longing inner mixed with your tiemn at sea,well done.You did capture the heartbreak in vivid details...great closing line
"oppressive days are gauged in radio signals"
so much is expressed in this line, wonderful!
I also like the contrast between the vivid youth scenes of the beginning and the growing stillness of the end.
Impressive as always.
Axilea
the moth balls really are impactual to the whole visual
as time is also a war zone of it's own accord
Wicker Swings & Wrap Around Porches
Vickie
Absolutly RIVITING !
I can hardly bear the close, that 'youth packed away in moth balls' is an absolute killer.
Such distinction in your words.
John
Regis