Mapped

 

When you don't look back for 50 years,

     there is a way to find the land of childhood,

It floats among the islands of first impression,

    bordered by fear and fairness.

The street names have not changed,

     some still bring a smile or a laugh.

Some project faces and obsolete words.

     the air is there with some of the same trees

very few businesses and the landscape

     altered by multitudes.

My father's Maple tree is long gone,

     the lawn he patrolled has turned to concrete

Nobody plays baseball on the field that was

    the street.  

No cherry tree to snag a pop fly before I did.

All those Saturday mornings

     made little difference,

except the one where I found toilet paper in the trees and bushes and

the morning my transistor radio warned about

     the Gulf  of Tonkin.