Poetry By
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.
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