Miss Weathers and Me
The black clad arm scaled the old concrete wall,
over the top, down the other side
With friends in tow, I stopped to rest,
leaning still against the six foot structure
As a boy of eight, I frequented the alleys and
hidden passageways of the city
Just then, spindling fingers struggled to reach, to grasp
They were reaching for me!
Now just inches from my head
Only the gaping mouths of my friends, frozen in terror,
alerted me to the danger
I looked up to see a wrinkled hand
Just a hand and an arm in a tight black knit sweater
almost touching my hat
Racing hearts fueled a speedy escape
But this was close, way too close
We had been warned about Miss Weathers
Old lady Weathers
Neighborhood lore
She cuts up little boys and puts them in pickle jars
Don’t ever go near, never accept an invitation inside
You’ll never come out
How could I not have realized whose house
that concrete fence belonged to
That mistake was never made again
We didn't tell anyone what had happened that day
but we knew the stories were true
I’ll never forget Miss Weathers
and how I almost ended up in her pantry
Copyright © Mike Gentile | Year Posted 2018
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