i saw all the ants marching,
the drummer following behind,
and trills of summer school bells
rattling like the hundred-year-old
Miss Delapone's bones.
and Janice still had glasses and
i had hand-me-down jeans,
stitched patches announcing
one more poor kid hunting riches
of summer grasses, baseball, swimming.

as night brought split oranges
and daddie's and uncle's nickel-dime poker,
and whiskey, beer brought their tongues
to the land of wishes that had no star,
grass laying its head on my back,
letting me stare at the stars as i hunted
for tomorrow when i would be big,
where i would lead men like Napolean
or even clear the decks of ne'er-do-wells
who had already captured Errol Flynn
and left him slashed without the woman.

so another summer was coming. then i
was already 50 going on 14.

05/01/2007