In de center of de cul-de-sac in Newton Profitt Square,
sits a round metal garbage bin cover,
propped up by a broken branch from de bush.
In front of it,
Kadesi hunch over with bat in hand,
staring back down de street at de bowler (like he could do he
something)
John deh behind de wicket, just in front de gutter—not serving no
real purpose other than stopping de ball from going over de fence
into de white picket fence yard
His brother Tony stan’ up in front dey yard fence stopping any runs
along de right side,
and Tee to de left, covering dat side.
But, right now, he deh watching back at me—de barefooted bowler
tearing down de street,
ball in hand,
ready to mash up de wicket on a sunny Sunday afternoon
against the backdrop of sugar cane fields
where stalks wave in de cool North Atlantic breeze,
and I’m embraced by the familial feel
of neighbors turned friends
turned family.
