Charles Farrell   © 2010 All Rights Reserved


We drank lots of Dew Drop soda, drew up maps in our heads and let the
trees be our guide: The squirrels always ran, ours was small-town
carnage about which I remember little. Memory is a funny thing: The
way extremes get built up and corner our hysteria; the way other
things all melt. Iíve forgotten Vivian Warnick, the way her face, her
blessed head, was a tiara built entirely to rest upon her neck. How I
wanted that neck on Friday evenings, what we mightíve done, restless
and necking. She got lost in my slideshow of bones and flesh. I
painted my room ivory, it was all I knew to rebel. I set a radio by
the bed, kept it on overnight and let the hum tuck me in. It was 1974.


Peter Joseph Gloviczki
Copyright © 2010  

Peter Joseph Gloviczki lives in Minneapolis. He has new poems in Barn Owl Review, Haydenís Ferry Review, Margie and New Orleans Review.

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