My first crush is a Jewish boy
who lives down the street
in a beige house limned
by lawn ironed flat as baize
on billiard slate. No trees or flowers
dare grow, break lines mowed clean
by his father whose shadow
casts fear in boys, makes them hide.
On Saturday, shades and drapes
drawn tight, the house looks taut
as a drum awaiting a downbeat.
I imagine him captive, made to kneel
and sing chant the Torah, yarmulke pinned
and tentative atop a shock of nutbrown hair.
I plan a secret mission, mitzvah
to sneak him a prayer for release,
a prayer asking God to accept
his six days of labor, smile
on our friendship, grant the gift
of play on Sabbath
so I might plant a helpless kiss
and pray for new growth.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones