Poem: Teepeeing

<h1> <strong><em>Teepeeing</em></strong></h1><h1> &nbsp;</h1><p> The high school jocks have a tradition</p><p> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; of sneaking out of their parents&rsquo; homes,</p><p> driving around our neighborhood</p><p> &nbsp;</p><p> chucking rolls of toilet paper</p><p> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;into the winless trees.</p><p> <span style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">The trees weep tails the rain</span></p><p> &nbsp;</p><p> converts into a kind of cement,</p><p> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;it takes winter to melt.</p><p> Together with a storm&rsquo;s worth</p><p> &nbsp;</p><p> of apologies from halfbacks and wide</p><p> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;receivers, tackles, midfielders and goalies.</p><p> And the occasionally accurate striker.</p><p> &nbsp;</p><p> Regret having no known gender.</p><p> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; No position that doesn&rsquo;t want to include</p><p> itself casting these streaming flags.</p><p> &nbsp;</p><p> Memory-making, I suppose. The night</p><p> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I remember waiting for their headlights</p><p> to dim, to feel their shadows approaching</p><p> &nbsp;</p><p> my father&rsquo;s field&mdash;the one I still had</p><p> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;to mow&mdash;so pleased they knew where</p><p> I lived, even with not making the team.</p><p class="rtecenter"> &mdash; Gary Margolis, Cornwall</p>

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