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Bob Meszaros

The Red Brick Sky


The seventh and eighth grade boys

were there already, the front wheels

of their bikes in place between

the old racks' wooden slats.


For thirty minutes, before the buses

circled and the first bell rang, a gray ball

arced above our sixth-grade heads, each

throw a pock mark on a red brick wall.


May through June we watched that wall

expanding and contracting with the sun

and rain—catch and throw the only rule.

We knew next year’s red wall would be ours.


But summer built a gym against 

the red brick wall, a gym with hard wood 

floors and baskets and a stage. 


Inside, we marched in single

file and ran between the lines. The walls

were padded and whistles blew.

Jim Zola 675DC4F9-2C15-4B6C-B6DA-57E28D416349.jpeg
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