A scene of old develops and sharpens.
It’s the start of some chapter
in a boy’s learning.

This memory is of being ten.
It has cold misty rains at a train station.
The buying of a ticket
with nickels and quarters and wide eyes.

He is going to see El Cid in Montreal
by himself, with given permission,
maybe implied good riddance,
and certainly a flight to something
contrived, but noble.

It’s a way to forestall fear for the future.
To puzzle out why close people fight
and bury the fallout;
to feel the budding of self-assurance
and, finally, to admire a hero
whom all would love and despair.

Yes, he wanted to be
someone’s hero.