A Boy of Eleven
A boy of eleven woke up suddenly
stretched and yawned.
Seven o’clock already! In panic
he pushed his cat aside and looked
out the window. A huge orange circle
seemed to heave fireballs at him.
Back then we paid no mind for girls.
It was a time in their lives
when they spent much time
in the jungle of their own attention.
Us boys were proud Boy Scouts.
We were always out for adventure.
And proving manhood
in the campfires we lit. And cooking
on a pile of hot rocks – being creative.
Riding our bikes to the end of a sunset.
Picking blueberries until
the mosquitoes surged to our sweat.
And best of all the fresh pies
momma baked. Dads finally home
after a day underground
in the Noranda Copper Mine.
We related our simple adventures
in the hush of whispered voices.
The excitement building as
we added a little sugar.
Stories grew tall as birch trees.
And when sleepy eyes signalled
time for dreaming – I did.
To relate the adventures today
meant lingering thoughts.
Memories to last forever so.
And I know all about them
‘cause today was about young me.
It was In Rouyn Quebec in 1953.