Acorns

I hadn't been back this way since 
before I was old enough to vote
and now I am one year away from
being eligible for Social Security.
The old cracking sidewalk that 
meanders along Rangeland Road
is still there but looks like 
not even a dime has been spent
on fixing it in the intervening decades.
Forty years of freeze-thaw cycles
and the forward progress
of oak trees that grew up with me 
buckle the concrete like the New Madrid earthquake,
the big one that we have all been waiting for.

The oak roots push up the jagged squares
of pitted and graying concrete,
a collision of time and nature.
I walked around the buckled concrete
in the brown and dying grass
I stopped and picked up an acorn
a descendant of the acorns
I picked up as a teenager
separated only by the best
and worst years of my life.
The acorn was left untouched
by the city squirrels that aren't afraid of me.

I deposited the pristine acorn
in my left jeans pocket for good luck.
I ponder whether such superstitions
are really worth the time and effort
I turned around and looked
at my old school building
where Ms. Lynn, Mr. Cesler & Mr. Givens
promised to prepare me for a future
that is now mostly over.
I took one last look at the school
and the crumbling section of sidewalk
Then filled both of my pockets
with acorns.