The high school jocks have a tradition
of sneaking out of their parents’ homes,
driving around our neighborhood
chucking rolls of toilet paper
into the winless trees.
The trees weep tails the rain
converts into a kind of cement,
it takes winter to melt.
Together with a storm’s worth
of apologies from halfbacks and wide
receivers, tackles, midfielders and goalies.
And the occasionally accurate striker.
Regret having no known gender.
No position that doesn’t want to include
itself casting these streaming flags.
Memory-making, I suppose. The night
I remember waiting for their headlights
to dim, to feel their shadows approaching
my father’s field—the one I still had
to mow—so pleased they knew where
I lived, even with not making the team.
— Gary Margolis, Cornwall