The Flood Wall

The Flood Wall

When I am home in Kittanning,
I always try to drive along the river side of town.
That way I can see the wall that you loved.
The Flood Wall.
With its grey, concrete face and top that we sat on.
It hasn't changed in the 30 years since I lived there.
Plain except for the graffiti love affairs,
and the black spots where joints were put out.
The rain washes both those away.

I remember when the ice broke on the river,
And they sent us home early from school.
That little wall still held up.
Everyone seemed surprised, except me.
I knew it was strong, even though it was low in places.
The day you asked me if you should go into the Army,
I remembered that damn wall and said yes,
And ended up taking you to the airport.

Now the snow lies four inches deep on the flood wall.
I sit alongside in my car, smoking my weed,
and seeing you tightroping the top,
In your bare feet, rolled up jeans, and late July tan,
Grinning down on me like some modern day Peter Pan,
Telling me that you will never grow up.