George T. Mormann

The First Boy

lived from his thumbs to his elbows
rocketing marbles toward lines
traced across lawns between neighbors
black and white diaspora
that saw humble plight
and played for keeps
but never together.
He lived a block from the train tracks
content in his boyhood
the bliss his parents
a pair of grey swans
sought in the alley-thin serenity
within the seasons of great migrations
and white flight. Can there be an
hour of peace between families outside
the nests of their dinner tables?

The father—
Polish stock from a Bridgeport kitchenette.
The mother—
Olive-hued import from a Burmese plantation.

and she called from the window
to their boy to wash up for supper
and he replied with a clacking
of colored orbs pouncing
on one another before settling
in the mud of the yards
for the rest of the night.