Those Days

The chemical-orange River Rouge
sun was an overgrown uncle
slipping me a sip of Stroh’s
and it took weeks to journey
the stone’s throw home from school.
Ripping fistfuls of flowers
through chainlink for my mother
from anybody’s garden
the East End alleys were
jeweled highways lined
with garbage can guards
where I once untombed
a baseball bat, a handgun,
and a stack of Hustlers.
I sang songs in German and Japanese,
Sukiaki and the girl from Ipanema,
kicked jams with a devil in a blue dress,
outdrew Boyd and Brown
and gunned them down,
entertained Captain Bob-Lo and Tricky Dick,
hat-tricked Gordie Howe,
kayoed Cassius Clay and Blue Lewis,
was crowned King of Dearborn
by Orville Hubbard.
When rain machine-gunned
our aluminum awning
and left me penned on the porch,
I took being wet, nameless, and small
because the factory haze sun
always returned with no hard feelings
lighting me to the treasure
of my world.

*NEW:  to SEE the poem, click this link, ThoseDays.wmv.

First published Poets’ League of Greater Cleveland Chapbook (1998).