|image: Parke Harrison|
In those salad days,
my younger brother and I,
bore home every morass in our All-Star soles,
honeycombed for that ‘surer’ grip—
Lewis and Clark—
only to find ourselves thwarted
on the threshold of a semi-flown nest,
pockets asquirm with pond-side game,
paralyzed by threat of tannings
and other such cruelties
should we tread,
onto mother’s freshly mopped floors.
Be wary, my dear
as you take my hand,
I haven’t changed a lick.