The Brown
Eyed Son
I am the brown-eyed son
I was born in Maravilla
in the government housing projects
where the game goes on;
I sit outside my window and watch the players,
the bat and ball owners
who hit a home-run
straight through the old man's
window,
the bitter old man
who yells at us kids
from behind the glass,
but who never comes out;
I listen to the panicking players
who scatter with anticipation
of the wrath of the cinto (the belt)
across their backsides;
I see the old man
violently open the door,
breaking the lock
and bouncing the latch across the
porch;
he steps outside, baseball in hand;
it's a miracle!
he is outdoors,
a first in the neighborhood;
I stand to behold him:
he is godly, like Thor or Pancho
Villa;
he spots me
and rushes at me;
I run away,
sensing his anger,
feeling his hand
about to grab my neck;
he wants to kill me,
but I just escape
into the doorway home;
I slam the door shut,
lock and latch it closed
and wait for him to leave;
waiting and waiting,
years pass,
my hands wrinkle
working the lock and latch
on the door;
I absorb days and nights
in the quiet of home,
often writing poems and stories
about games and shadows in
Maravilla;
suddenly, mid sentence,
a baseball breaks through the
window
and shatters my thoughts;
angry and bitter
for having my loneliness disturbed,
I leap at the door
and force it open;
the latch snaps off
and bounces across the
porch;
I spot a boy watching me in awe,
like I'm a homerun hitter;
I run at him
with one fist clenched in accusation,
the other holding the ball;
he runs away
and I give chase;
angrily I almost grab his neck
but restrain my hand
at the fatal moment
as I realize that I am outdoors;
I watch the boy enter his doorway
home;
he slams the door
and locks and latches it shut;
I aim the baseball at his window
but decide against throwing it,
instead dropping it to my side
for some other player to find;
for if the window breaks
too soon or too late,
I will never be born:
I am the brown-eyed son.
