Kickball

When we were kids we played kickball
in my parents' back yard
with those cheap plastic balls
you see in bins at grocery stores.

First base was a pine tree
(or a branch that it held)
We were both overcome
with some odd allergy.

And second was a spot
on the side of the pool
that always seemed to move
(and change all the rules)

Third base was usually
something unknown,
like a chair, or a stone,
or a red-headed gnome.

And home was between
the old apple tree,
and the bushes that always
flowered in spring.

This yard is still our kickball field.

Only now there's a garden
on the pitcher's mound,
and first base is a monster
taking over the town.

(Yes, even our ghost men have grown.)

The pool is now rusting
its way to extinct,
And that old apple tree,
that once marked home for me,
was cut down a long time ago.