The Sun

I have lived a magical life.
The way the hot sun reflected
off concrete at Woolworth's
in 1967, me in a hot Dart,
waiting to go in for candy, or
'just one thing' my folks always let me have.

I think it was the sun I was
in love with then. It was an
orchestra leader, a deep steam
section bellowed up through
the trills of many reflections
on new chrome and glass,
warmer cream vinyl, maple trees and grass.
My parents were going places
or staying in, making little
movements to keep things in tune.
And there was always the grass,
popping out of cracks in the sidewalk.
The sun called them out, kissed them.
It did not matter, the suburb's crescendo.
Every blade was at home then.