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. 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s