In the Public Garden

Every gym class, Stevie Flowers pissed
his corduroys.
He hated dodge ball, stood
in the corner or hid
from the bigger boys who broke
anything or anyone small.

He read Make Way for Ducklings,
sat on his knees with an awkward grace
of a Buddha with a slow smile.
You knew then, what you know now.
This would be the man who loves you.

Each summer, you played
on the same softball team.
You still remember the metallic
taste of the bat. He held your head,
while your nose bled.
Told you your glasses could be taped.

Later others would stand
outside your window,
holding a book of Yeats,
fly ready with a half drunk
bottle of vodka.
A simple request, at first.

While on a trip to Boston,
you pause at the eight ducklings in bronze.
Still waiting to swim, still like the boy Buddha
who read to you, who somewhere is a man.
You will recognize him someday,
without a reason to run.

Emily Walter