Bill Fisher's Home Was Egged Again

From my earliest memory, this gentle man,
Stooped and grey now, has lived next door with his cats.
As young teens, we'd hide and yell out "Swishy Fishy!"
Tossing eggs at his house, or bombarding it
With the rotten excess of a rich fall harvest
Became a rite of passage for us neighbor boys,
Our chance to flex our budding manliness
By taunting a man whom we viewed as less of one;
Trying to banish our own sexual insecurity
With each splatter of old produce upon his siding.

This fisher of men though, was a better man
Than we were. Always forgiving, always there
With a wave or a kind word, even if he suspected
Our complicity in his home's vandalism.

Bill Fisher's home was egged again last night,
Hanging baskets ripped down, their dirt mingling
With the pink petal tears shed upon his sidewalk.
I'm heading over there with a pail of soapy water,
Some rags, and a couple bags of potting soil.
I've a friend to assist now, and old sins to expiate.