Old ornery , we call her,
wild orange hair and wandering eye
Lives in the old wood shack, we guess
she must’ve been there
We play who could look the longest
coming home from school
most days I wind up flinching
and Warren wins
But today I fall on the pavement
scrape my knee,
Hurry! Get home! Hurry!
salty tears, muddy hands, scared skinny me
hobbling past her shack
But wait! She’s waving now,
evil eye glowing, frank and knowing
Boy, where you going with that knee?
I want to hide as she beckons me inside
feel fear growing but her eye don’t move
Mothball house, bandaged knee and
not a word spoken. She cuts watermelon
into small triangles and does not scold me
when the juice drips past my elbows , down, down,
pooling on her polished wooden table,
This poem was first published in the new issue of Blackmail Press (bmp 33, found here). Thank you to Doug Poole et al for including me in this dynamite issue.
For more Tuesday Poems, go here.