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
and 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.
By accident, to feel the budding of self-assurance
and, finally, to admire a hero
who all would love and despair.
Yes, he wanted to be
someone’s hero.


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