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Ron Herron
Woodland Avenue
we were young,
and our ball field
was the middle
of woodland avenue,
whenever there
were enough gaps
in parked cars
to make bases
scribbled
with the rock
hidden among
maple roots
in my front yard.
mrs. anchor's house,
on the south side,
was a fair ball out;
she kept balls hit
into her yard.
mr. condon's house,
foul territory north,
because of the rottweiler
we called t-rex.
mean mr. bailiff's
touch-me-not studebaker,
always parked in right field,
taught us to be pull hitters,
and windows of all kinds
had no dibs,
since breaking one
ended the game
more surely than rain.
baseballs came
in whatever color tape
our fathers had,
and passing cars
made for time-outs,
impatiently waved
out of the way,
while keeping tense vigil
on prime outfield parking,
if they slowed too much.
little heroes all,
dreaming
of catches made,
windows missed
and yards avoided.
the game continued,
inningless,
until too many cars
returned
and parked,
or streetlights
came on,
and mothers
called teams
to dinner.
or, eventually,
the girls came
and wanted to play,
taking fielders away
for games
of their own,
and our playground
became
the darkness
and shadows
of woodland avenue.
©2011 by Ron Herron
A retired Fortune 50 Marketing Operations manager, Ron Herron
has traveled extensively in Europe and the Far East. During his career he was an author and editor of
feature articles, annual reports, non-fiction manuscripts and a variety of websites.
He also writes short stories and poetry. Ron lives with his wife and son in the midwestern United States.
He is always available to consider new writing assignments as he indulges in his passion for the written word.
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