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. 

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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