Time changes all things, for better or worse
old memories forgotten, and vice a verse.
Some things destroyed have become anew.
I wonder whatever happened to you?
Remember barhopping?
Speeding along, deserted, winding roads,
and waiting in line together to see a show.
Sorry, now my bedtime is 9 pm.
Gridlock and road rage are exhausting, and
I’m waiting to be vaccinated, you know.
We used to walk together, whispering of boys
and imagining they were sweet...
My knee is acting up; I proudly
middle-finger saluted the man
who wouldn’t offer up his seat.
Our bikes had coaster brakes! Innocent fun.
We played ping pong; or
read epic novels under the trees.
“Electric Segue Blamed for Deadly Crash.”
“Video Gamer Plots School Shooting.”
There’s Twitter memes from all of these.
Remember that varsity letter sweater,
badminton player?
You’ll never guess now…
I’m a candidate for a hip replacement.
(pills / icepacks / owwww)
Your 17th birthday! Recall
that ice-cream parlor trip.
Banana splits - what a treat!
I know just the place for low-fat froyo.
If they’re open, want to meet?
Endless busy signals — frantically trying to dial!
I’m texting now to tell you your voice mailbox is full.
Sneaking around town,
discovering new hideouts,
to share stolen wine.
Did you hear so-and-so’s in a 12-step program?
Do you know if she’s fine?
The smell of our percolator in the kitchen.
The Starbucks nearby?
It’s over my budget and
the calorie count’s high.
My father grew vegetables in our backyard
and salads were heavenly!
My figure was trim.
Day-old kits are on sale at Safeway, and
the number on my scale is grim.
Remember Friday allowance?
Being dropped at the mall?
Spending our fortunes, giggling, photo booths.
I’m waiting on stimulus checks,
scanning Megan’s List for predators, and
trying to find a decent filter for Zoom.
Your car had hand-crank windows and no air!
We could feel the breeze, hear the birdsong.
I’ve got a temp-controlled steering wheel warmer,
and a car wash subscription where the line is long.
Shared cigarettes!
Pockets of loose change!
Slow dancing so close.
Will we ever again?
Fear of AIDS, concealed weapons, and six-foot radii.
I no longer take planes.
Our lives compared, side by side
as the old meets the new.
We talk on a screen and
try to recall the many fine things
that we used to do.
Oh how I wish for old times sake -
just one more time before too late
May I come see you?
About the Creator
Teri LaBuwi
Teri LaBuwi is a talented multi-media artist, writer, and poet from Northern Virginia, where she has also made a name for herself as a successful real estate broker and consultant. Some of her works are displayed online.
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins4 days ago in Fiction
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