Ripples from a Stone Dropped in the Sewer​

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Ripples from a stone dropped in the sewer

bring back thirty-year-old admonitions,

warnings of alligators lurking beneath suburban streets.

“One more rock,” I say, hands in my pockets.

My boy and I make our way to the woods behind the school

where we step over broken bottles of Mike’s Hard.

I don’t want to pass my fears onto him—

fears of falling, of bugs, of dirt—

much less my sense of balance,

so I let go of his hand

and watch him explore a small outcropping of rock.

Afterward, we sit down on a patch of moss.

The light looks different here,

gold sun filtered through oak leaves.

We leave the woods for the playground,

where I have more fun with a kickball and a Frisbee

than ever before,

letting late-spring air fill my body,

wondering where he found his wisdom,

wondering where I

lost mine.

On the way home, we balance together on a neighbor’s rock wall,

the blocks loose beneath our feet.

Daniel Gene Barlekamp is the author of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction for adults and young readers. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Eclectica, Paterson Literary Review, Seventh Quarry, and elsewhere and have been translated into Chinese by Poetry Hall. He is on the staff of Molecule: A Tiny Lit Mag. Originally from New Jersey, Daniel now lives with his wife and son in Massachusetts, where he practices U.S. immigration law. Visit him at https://dgbarlekamp.com/ and on BlueSky @dgbarlekamp.bsky.social.