A Couple of Poems About Childhood

FLICK

The only thing
I can remember
about Grandpa

before his funeral
is the night
he and Dad

punched holes
in the clear
plastic tent

my brother and
I had constructed
on the perfect

grass in the yard
of the rented
red brick house

on Huron Street.
As we curled
for the night,

Dad turned on
the garden hose,
knowing we would

come running inside.
Grandpa crossed his
gray arms, laughing.


REPLAY

I never see the playground
anymore, the painted-on bases
and paved-over sandbox lost
in the fog of Gees, cased in
blacktop running like mascara
'round the old school bricks
and the sixth grade teacher with
the Santa Claus face telling me
"When you grow up, son, don't
let your shoulders be round."
I never see him anymore, gone
like a limps shoelace to Hell
with the rest of those furball
stares and worn tarot-card days
showing a child with plaster-cast
wrist too young for phone numbers
and blamed for bad handwriting,
reaping watermelon candies and
swingset privileges with a little
thunk, never looking for the day
of revival to be thought up and
scripted out like that ringing
up the ears of Saturday monrning
cartoon shows and movies where
the monsters never win--wanting
to go with Don Kessinger grace
but only lying flat, hours
rickety dried clover warped
out of the ground. Who knew
who flushed the gritted teeth
like Dad did every Sunday
mornings when "Who the God-
damn hell do you think you
are?" swam out in Budweiser
waves and whistled through
the bunkbeds like wheeze?