In the city, the birds are changing color and falling out of the trees. Out on the striped lawns, third-stringers are committing holding penalties away from the play. The fellows that fill the potholes with crumbled feta cheese, dyed black, are fixing to hang the plows on their DPW trucks in order to install another whole season’s-worth of potholes. Best head on out to whatever viaduct or weir or dam or sluice or mud puddle you’ve got handy and give it one more go. You’ll be playing pond hockey on it all soon enough.
And don’t mince in here and try to tell me Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn weren’t real people. I read those books. They’re real to me, dammit.
When I gaze into my crystal ball, which is beginning to look like a rear-view mirror, I’ll admit, I see lots of pretty girls and the occasional catastrophic spinal cord injury in these boys’ future. As God intended.
(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along. He never gets old)