A string of broken bricks,
laid out, one-high
the dotted outline of a house
skirts the grass
muddied with days of feet
where Donald preferred
to play with girls.
Where he could sit
on two-brick chairs,
teetering, playing father there,
waiting for his tea.
But the girls did not see,
or love him
for joining their game.
They scolded him
for not earning,
for not controlling the kids,
for not washing enough, and silently,
for not playing soldiers and football
like the other boys did.
His choice, at my young age I felt
was not some wanting to be a girl,
but found the self-made house the comfiest world
where uncertainties could be acted out.
And from the makeshift pitch of our eighteen-a-side game
or the roofs of our latest climbing wondered if this plain
boy was brave or lost, and knew
that few of us were at home in football,
but clung to it, for that was where we were
in hiding against the unsureness of our days.