Hieroglyph Kids

 

–rural New Hampshire, 1960

 

 

My mother spoke so often of the Peaveys

That a strange thing happened and I became 

 

One of them–one of the dozen tired 

And strained children of that clan 

 

And I walked barefoot in March,  

Lived in the ash gardens,

 

Carried chairs to the river, 

Smoked cigarettes, sang 

 

To the acrid odor of the railroad.

Now I think the hours are like curtains–

 

Drawn, I see again the truants, kids like me, 

Without lamps, or houses, or doors. 

 

They say love

Reveals fury–

 

So we were loved–  

And one of us stole a cheap guitar.