Madison Street: Phil

He did live down the street, although his name wasn't Phil. 

I chose the name because the root word "phil" comes from a Greek verb meaning "to love".  Perhaps the boy was cruel because he was desperately in need of love. 

I was a tomboy who wasn't allowed to join the baseball games in my Aunt Mary Ann's side yard. But I would watch the boys play from the high limbs of a tree which was also third base. 

And poor Phil was never part of the fun.

Phil

 

There’s no love lost between the world and Phil,

the creepy kid who lives six houses down,

who brags about the time he swung a cat

and let it fly; the noose up on Tank Hill

for puppy dogs that might refuse to drown;

the day he skinned alive a sewer rat.

So when they’re picking sides for sandlot ball,

Phil is the name the boys will never call.

I watch him wait for someone to relent,

lend him a bat, toss him the catcher’s mitt

or even send him to right field. He’ll vent—

for now at least—with epithets and spit,

or maybe shoot the bird, impenitent,

slouching home to sins he must commit.