It’s rush hour and I can’t get across
the highway when my eight-year-old asks this:
Where’s the Wall of Fame?
“Cooperstown, New York,” I say,
“Hall of Fame,” I correct,
since we’re on the way to his baseball game,
I’m assuming that’s what he means.
No, the Wall of Fame, he says,
“No such thing,” I say, as a new load
of cars going both directions
empty onto the road before me
The Wall of Fame, where they recognize
all the people. You know, that woman Amelia,
who flew, and the Wright Brothers?
“Some sort of Aviation Hall of Fame?” I ask.
No, the place where alllllllllll the people
are recognized! Martin Luther King jr.,
Alexander Graham Bell, Babe Ruth, he says
as if there is a place where all are recognized
for what they gave to the rest of us.
Where the great ones are, he says,
as if that will help. It’s out there, Mom,
I just don’t know where it is, he says.