Poem: Teepeeing

Teepeeing  

The high school jocks have a tradition

    of sneaking out of their parents’ homes,

driving around our neighborhood

 

chucking rolls of toilet paper

    into the winless trees.

The trees weep tails the rain

 

converts into a kind of cement,

    it takes winter to melt.

Together with a storm’s worth

 

of apologies from halfbacks and wide

    receivers, tackles, midfielders and goalies.

And the occasionally accurate striker.

 

Regret having no known gender.

    No position that doesn’t want to include

itself casting these streaming flags.

 

Memory-making, I suppose. The night

    I remember waiting for their headlights

to dim, to feel their shadows approaching

 

my father’s field—the one I still had

    to mow—so pleased they knew where

I lived, even with not making the team.

— Gary Margolis, Cornwall

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