Sylvan Summer Part I
The escape commenced.
The endless drive from middleclass suburbia
ala Levittown; across hill and dale,
packed in a 1947 black beauty
of a Lincoln Continental; to the land of Peyton Place
and Steven King; Maine.
Lemon up and tangerine down, Dad drives.
We wiggle and whine, Mom scolds.
A leg cramping journey made longer by
one too many pee brakes.
The dirt road pinged rocks of the chrome bumper;
we near the amorphous clapboard dream.
The violet light of the dash shows nine o’clock.
The ramshackle ashen white farmhouse
full of kissin cousins, cows and chickens;
Madonna’s home. Uncle Ken a mere decorative necessity;
Uncle ken who could charm the pants right off ya,
and obviously had, voila; cousins Georgie and Wayne.
Uncle Ken of the sweet smile and Chiclet teeth;
beer bottle in hand with his concrete company hat cocked to the side;
one long, tall, strawberry blonde, drink of water.
He was a God to us, two little girls, Snow White and Rose Red.
His only rival his son, gorgeous George;
Georgie boy, first cousin, first love.
Nights saw us hunker down under patch work.
Kissin cousins in twinned rooms.
Meeting for body heat in the frosted dawn
in a single wrought iron bed, scrawny eight year olds.
Heads under quilts breathing in and out to warm the pocket of air
we were the only heat on the second floor. With a mighty dash;
reminiscent of our favorite mouse [Mighty]
a charge was launched across the unfinished attic
to the backstairs to country kitchen.
Barefeet dodge raised square nails and splinters.
Bark bits impress frozen soles, as the stove's in house woodpile is jumped.
Twin dynamos skate across the linoleum to a copper kettle's whistle.
A white Windsor landing achieved, Aunt Madonna pours
cornflakes in porcelain white china bowls with a laugh.
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