sandbox souvenirs

WINDSTREWN

In myriad ways, now and since,
I’m less a formidable force than then,
When I was Icarus on a banana-seat Schwinn,
A Double Dragon defeater on fifty cents,
A baleful Blackfoot in dun buckskin,
Or a Ranger with hardened steel in his chin.

Deep thoughts were enumerated tootsie pop licks
Or scissor-splitting spit-clogged pixie sticks;
Didn’t take it too hard on a Sadie Hawkins miss—
Holding hands was adventurous, never mind a kiss;
And wouldn’t make too much of the little pinpricks
A bully might brandish against a simple bliss.

Miss Welch taught me cursive for counted naught;
Miss Bryant once jacked me to my toes by an ear,
And I feigned half-deaf-to-left for the rest of that year;
Principal Eubanks had the handle on a hardwood swat
And kept my mother’s work-number too damn near—
My heart pocketed it all as a sandbox souvenir.

There seemed less to lose…

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3 thoughts on “sandbox souvenirs”

  1. It’s funny how the mind works…
    To me, “sandbox” has two meanings: one is the place where cats leave their… uh… deposits, and the other is a way to keep programmes or scripts isolated from the system.
    Given the title I imagined a cat carefully placing its souvenirs on the sandbox.
    Yeah, I know, I’m not a poet.

    Liked by 1 person

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