Scattering
Like gods gathering
tiny psychedelic planets,
we brim the red bucket
with superballs
I and my boy, now a man,
just shy of twenty-three,
scoop up balls cracked
with age and love
On three we hurl the planets,
the superballs pinging
off white worn tiles,
tub, ceiling, ricocheting madly,
my boy a boy again,
bathtime chaos and joy
We will not miss
this small, crumbling space,
but see how we sob,
the decrescendoing superballs
slowly rolling to silence
one last time
in the only home
we’ve known
*
Rob Spillman was the editor of Tin House from 1999-2019. He is the author of the memoir All Tomorrow’s Parties.
