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Bocce
by Robert Demaree

 

On the eve of his seventh birthday
Joey and I play bocce at Golden Pines.
I roll the red ball hard, to give him a chance.
A silly game, he thinks he knows who is meant to play.
He considers evidence:
The ramp descending gently into the pool,
That only grandparents seem to live at Golden Pines,
And what might happen next.
We watch the swans nesting by the pond.
Joey’s ball, heavy, deep granite green,
Eases toward the pallino:
This day, I think, will not come again.

“Bocce” appeared in The Aurorean Spring-Summer 2008