This poem is being featured at: KEEPSAKES (http://mirla.net/keepsakes) Summer of '72 We made forts out of pine needles and branches, prickly and stiff, like our mother's words before her first cup of coffee. Flying through days on rusty swings, singing Joy To The World. Secretly scared for our most fragile friend, who Sgt. Sousa fondled in the bushes where he hid his porn stash. Mrs. Sousa beat their large headed son with an army belt for no special reason except he looked like his dad. Afterwards, he'd come to the fort, sucking his thumb, seeking some sort of love, which we gave simply. It was us against them. We'd play spin-the-bottle until Mike Sumbolski, his coke bottle eyes all serious, would ask to kiss our "cookie" instead of our mouth. Our bedroom walls were covered with the shiny happy faces of Donny Osmond, Michael Jackson and David Cassidy. We wanted Marsha Brady's hair and her parents. I missed my dad. He was in Korea. The letters we wrote each other were the closest to a relationship we ever got. ©~Ta§ha~ 1999 |
