We had to be back before the street lamps came on,
our bicycles with pedal brakes and a dynamo-light.
Things were just different when we were still young,
all meeting in the park for a game or clod fight.
We dug several forts and built up dirt ramps.
We found a dog skull near a cold tramp's fire.
We improved my friend’s treehouse with a wooden pallet
and made booby traps out of string and barbed wire.
We competed for height in the avocado trees
and made bows and arrows and spears.
We waged war with the ants using firecrackers
and in the river, we piled deep stoney weirs.
No day was complete without a cut or a roasty
though no one much cried until we got home,
where our mothers nursed us with cups of sugar water
and the stinging red kiss of Mercurochrome.
When I was a kid, if I got a cut,
My mother would grab the glass vial
And slather a swath of no other stuff but
Mercurochrome; that was her style.
Inside of the bottle a thin tube of glass
Was for dipping and coating with goo.
Then you dabbed it on so that no germs would amass
And the medicine knew what to do.
Every household did stock it, like aspirin and Vicks
(VapoRub, used if we had a cold),
But the FDA sometimes gets wise and restricts
Certain products which stop being sold.
That’s the way things went down in Mercurochrome Land.
It’s been years since it’s legal to buy it;
Though its mercury content, we now understand,
Isn’t healthy, some still would deny it.
It’ surprising to me that what once was assumed
To be helpful can lose its cachet,
So perhaps with Purell use we all might be doomed
As our safeguards it withers away.
The last days of summer sigh,
breathe out slowly.
Summer colors fade.
Mercurochrome leaves-
burnt orange and lemon yellow-
mimic the colors in my new wool sweater.
Liquid saffron autumn light
filtered through the trees,
remind me of other days
filled with envy.
Me in plain brown oxfords,
skirt not quite in style,
hand-me-down dresses,
coat from Woolworth.
Brown bag lunch.
Meat loaf sandwich.
Embarrassing milk in a pint jar,
lid screwed onto waxed paper.
Academic IQ..Honor Roll,
Social IQ: Dumb as a post.
I'm so shy, I'm speechless,
and just a little overweight.
While princesses in white buck Spauldings,
dyed-to-match sweater sets,
swish crinolines under grey poodle skirts,
flip their perfect page boy haircuts.
They meet in the cafeteria,
to dine on Jello and cottage cheese,
a dollop of mayonaise on top;
to discuss the latest fashion and
who is "going steady" with whom.
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