Ours was a typical neighborhood
where children played ball
during the long, summer evenings.
The funeral home played catcher.
When we struck out,
our outs bounced off the bricks.
The prison was our outfield wall,
and the prisoners played with us.
Their home plate faced east;
ours faced west.
We shared the outfield
except for the wall in the middle.
Home runs escaped into our yard,
and we turned and fielded hard balls
although we played softball.
We always played softball
and never hit home runs over the wall,
but we kept the hard balls
in a cardboard box in the entry
where our cocker spaniel slept.
I guess you could say
the state subsidized my childhood.

This poem first appeared in Snakeskin.
Used here with the author’s permission.