Most days after school, I waited
for my ride, gulped the last
of my thermos milk,
let it pearl on my lips, placed
my tongue on the zippery edge
of a chipped tooth, probed the cavities,
climbed a cyclone fence
to pet a pit bitch.
Tramped through spartina
in the small swamp
next to the train tunnel.
I would crouch—
hoping no one could see me—
in a damp spot to pee.
Examine a branch with two kinds
of leaves. Pull apart
snails as they mated.
My mother was a punctual woman,
came at me with a broom
when my lingering made her late.
Why did she delay?
The five o’clock carillon bells
would chime and go silent.
The sky ached. Dusk.
No sound of the Lincoln V-8,
no hairspray smell, shiny-white
shopping bags, side-by-side in the trunk,
no sister with some boy
necking in the backseat.
Just my thoughts lifting like bees.
Rocks piled up to pitch at the train.
Pigeons who ventured closer
and closer for crumbs.
