(originally published in Front Porch Review, April 2021)
A boy
thirteen
hands
in pockets
buzzed
downhill
between
Peach Bottom and Beaver Creek
past
half-grown
cornfields
past
a man tinkering
with his truck
past
the barber shop.
The boy’s nose
split the wind
across
both cheeks
chin-length hair
out of his eyes.
Board shorts
beat time
at his knees.
His skateboard
was no longer
his banana-boat
bike with
superhero
streamers.
Chest
unrestricted
arms
self-assured
eyes
direct.
Master of his universe.
