–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
So we were loved–
And one of us stole a cheap guitar.