They used to see my freckles when they looked at me,
And waves of curly hair upon my head.
My eyes would just be squinting out, below my knitted brows,
Some even thought my hair a shade of red.
Sun-bleached, I guess it was, because later it turned muddy brown,
And no one called me “carrot top” again.
I liked to think about the way things worked.
Deducing that I had a furnace in my skin.
It was right there in my belly, it rumbled so sometimes,
And its warmth was quite apparent, I can say.
However cold my hands became, my belly was still warmer,
Thanks to all the fuel I sent its way.
My mother always swore that I could grow potatoes,
In darkened furrows when I held my skinny elbows out..
I liked potatoes, but they never quite took root,
Erosion from the frequent storms of baths, no doubt.
I don’t know about the other boys, but dirt was my companion,
My plaything for the little cars and men.
I built the roads they traveled on, and tunnels,
Road-building was less time-consuming then.
I still have marbles that I played with, then,
I haven’t lost them all quite yet.
And hopscotch was another thing I did,
And I could probably beat you at it, I bet!
You’ll notice I defined low maintenance,
Except for quantities of food and soap,
For clothing that I got from here and there,
And a corner where I hid to dream and hope.
I remember ice-cream that we worked to make,
And fevers that I sweated out at night,
My Dad’s rough hands that rubbed my itchy back,
And always knowing things would be alright.
These things that I remember comfort me,
They gather round my thoughts at end of day,
But just like then I am not ready for my bed,
I’m still alive inside here, come and play!
NicknamedBob . . . . . . . . . September 19, 2006
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
