In memory of Marshall T. Schick (1962-1990)
The laughter and sounds of two cycle engines
are what I remember most. Even in summer
you played with the Kawasaki, saucer and rope.
On frozen Duck Creek five bodies
would stack upon a radio flyer as your laughter
ricocheted off the elms that lined its banks.
As you shifted gears and roared, gaining speed,
your maneuvers would force bodies to peel
off the stack, until at last only one survived.
Pleasures of others gave you the most reward,
I remember. And when I learned that your tire did not
obey at three a.m., I could only think you are not alone.
december two thousand eighteen
(originally penned circa 1990)
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved