Marsheila Marcy Rockwell
Published on: 8/11/2005
Chrissy at the Grave of P.S. 103
She approaches the old school,
Rubber soles soft on the broken asphalt,
Wooden racquet clutched in a sweaty hand.
She has a grungy tennis ball in her pocket --
It was once green, but years
Of dog slobber and dirt
Have stolen both its bounce and its brightness.
The windows, eyes spangled with leftover bits
Of Day-Glo paint, and glue, and glitter,
Are sealed shut in death
With plywood and graffiti.
She dares the chalk dust-breath of tombs,
The ghosts of calico-clad children,
And the rusting skeletons of swings,
In search of a blank wall,
A patch of pavement free of glass,
Where she can hit a deflated ball
With a hand-me-down-and-out racquet
And dream of golden plates, grass courts, and freedom
In a country across the sea.