The rhythm is a stutter a hollow thud

The rhythm is a stutter, a hollow thud

that carries across the empty lot.

It’s the sound of a heart beating in the mud

or a clock that forgot what it forgot.

Every time the ball hits the ground,

the chain-link fence hums a low, wire song.

I stand in the kitchen, gripped by the sound,

feeling like something has been wrong for too long.

It’s the sound of a kid trying to get out

by hitting the same spot again and again.

Just enough noise to settle the doubt

until the porch light calls him back in.