It was a little past 11 am on a Saturday morning in mid February
My bodys' alarm clock usually woke me up around 9 but I had been up until 4 a.m. fretting about some shit that happened at work the previous day
Snow blanketed the Brooklyn streets, offering a quietness, a stillness, although very brief
The sound of shovels scraping concrete disrupted my sleep
I arose with an air of irritation because it was my day off, and it was TOO early for that shit!
The noise seemed to be getting closer and closer to my house so I sat up to look out my bedroom window
My neighbor from 2 doors down was to blame for the disruption
With a yellow shovel in hand, he eagerly removed snow from the sidewalk and tossed it into the street
Moments after he created a clear path, exposing the concrete underneath, a woman walks out of the house
Her left hand was filled with reusable tote bags and what looked like a jacket draped over right arm
Her right hand gripped a hot cup, presumably with coffee or tea inside
She stops in front of him
Close to his face
They exchange words
They kiss
I let out an “awww” to myself, now invested in my neighbors love life!
She begins walking down the clear path made by my neighbor, heading toward her car
Neighbor scurries in an effort to get ahead of her, opening the driver door
He then opens the back door so she can free her right hand of the items that had been weighing them down
They kiss again, except now she’s able to embrace him
They share the kind of “I’ll miss you hug”
Not like “I’ll see you later on tonight” but "I’ll see you soon, a few weeks maybe”
My heart starts to melt in a similar fashion as the snow on the windowsill I’m watching them through
She gets in and starts the car, letting it warm up
She leaves the driver door open
He holds on to the door,
holding on to the moment
They exchange words for a few minutes
Snow slips down the front windshield
The car seems warmed up
He leans into the car and they kiss once more before he closes her door
He walks away with hesitation
A sadness in his posture, not filled with sorrow but with a hope for her return
He picks the shovel back up and proceeds to help out a neighbor
Maybe, they need to clear a path for a lover too
About the Creator
Keys Will
Poetry is my first love, my first language! With 20+ years on this poetic journey as a Spoken Wordsmith, Lyricist and published author, I enjoy sharing my gift with the world and digesting the messages crafted by fellow poets.
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 Wiggins5 days ago in Fiction
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