The year is… the time I last played outside with my friends. I miss it.

Tomorrow we become

our oldest version of ourselves.

After a long day of being

professional athletes,

my friends and I take a seat.

We never wanted to sit on the grass.

The ground is for losers.

Remember those large, green,

metal boxes in our backyard?

They’re called padmounted transformers.

I always thought that it would explode if we sat on it.

We did it anyway.

How I long for the summer.

Ice cream cones, fifty cents a pop.

A large coke, but maybe Gatorade, instead.

Sweat coming out of me in parts that I

did not know existed.

After recovering from our halftime lunch,

we decide to play some more.

Mom was already calling me for dinner.

Risking my chances of being in trouble, I played on.

One more shot, one more catch, one more hit.

Every second mattered, our moments fleeting.

Today we are the youngest

that we will ever be.

Yearning to go out and play.

Just one more time.

R.M.G. Millo

Writing (like poetry and articles) amongst other things is ever evolving. The words, the flow, the rhythm; there is an evolution in the writer’s heart and mind.