Linden

off the right of the fork, if you hang left,
return to the road w/ kill that marks the passage north to Jersey and New York
but this is not about either of those cities

continuing further, w/ ample bike paths and the field w/ its majestic lights
hosts a multitude of sports during the spring and summer
from my rooftop, that my father built access to,
w/ my little assistance,

watch
the games that brings the vans in droves, in front of the drive
way, not mine, my father's,
and this field, adjacent to Dagwood's that I've yet to enter

the long wood   brown,
lacquered surface of the ancient bar,
and the questionable crabs, perhaps,
but only a few blocks down from my house,
from the field there, still king of the skyes here,
expanding ever higher
                                 oer the corners of roofs,
oer clouds into Jupiter and its icy moons

a chopper's roar which makes the acura scream too,
the dogs next door, and the cat that has claimed
my territory, hiding in the daytime amongst the large fronds
that return each summer,
the long narrow strip of earth where my father,
who had only the best intentions, wanted to place a gate,
and our wintry neighbor who refused because it was legally her land
but it was on our side of the fence
here,

deep sludge concrete
the immense
tow truck to tow
the cement truck,

me, young, then, palming a twenty into the driver's hands,
or was it my father?

eight giants w/ their shining helms
standing guard, casting their lights
oer the darkness of the Delaware