Poetry by Harold Strauss
Grey weather would fall in, and the boys and I
Would rush out, meet up, as if it were
In our blood, as if a coming storm ensnared
And beguiled young sons to the cul-de-sac
To pick up our fathers’ binoculars
And our weathered BB rifles
And wreak our own havoc
In the woods down the way
Until the dinner bell rung
And we’d huddle in my home
to share war stories
Until we all fell asleep.
Free from fear
To our youth.