the red ball

the church at St. Thomas More
still
stands.
there it is in red
brick
off south capital street
on the ravine,
the walk way to Maryland.
sturdy
and still, dirty
from the years since
built.
the stain glass
still holding the light.
the indigo and blood red.
the emeralds
and yellow.
the washing is inside.
the souls
of lovers married,
bodies
taken to graves not far.
the confessional
packed so tight with spent
and forgiven sin.
I remember the black top,
the nuns
in black. outside with folded
arms,
their crosses in hand, crosses
around
their necks.
and the red ball. it was
all about that.
how it flew through those
cold spring
afternoons,
each red faced boy or girl,
upon it with hard shoes,
kicking kicking,
with so much
of our lives
before us.