when we were kids

behind the bowling
alley we painted
a strike zone with
a can of white
spray paint and bought
a dozen rubber
balls. someone had
a bat, a few gloves.
and we'd throw,
and swing for hours
until our arms were
sore and the sun had
burned our faces into
roses.and there we went
the entire summer,
and the next one too,
living in an imaginary
world as real, if not
more real than the
one we were born into.
a year ago i rode by
there. the bowling
alley was gone, but
the building stood, the
wall still there, and
our strike zone somehow
visible, though faded
awaited the next pitch
from our young and
wonderous arms.