The pine we used to use
for second base in the vacant lot
across the street from where I was raised
is long gone, the lot having been
transformed back then
by a split level
that was new, then decayed,
now refurbished to
the beauty it originally displayed,
which for me is none.
I still resent how
the builders took that tree down
before I developed
enough strength and courage
to get farther than the first branch.
All that’s left: the unclimbable
third base birches, looking
not a day older than they did
fifty years ago; those bent trees and
my anger that somehow
whenever I come back
this is the first thing and nearly
the only thing I recall
about a place I once called home.