Paul
wore
shirts the colour of
old wedding bouquets.
his father
was the school janitor
and he (Paul) would get up
while it was still dark and help his father
wax the lanes at the bowling alley
which was in the first floor
of the school building
that housed grades
1 thru 8.
it was
the 1950s and
nobody thought twice
about putting kids to work early
and Paul’s father was no exception.
in the
summer,
Paul would
go out to the farms
and pick strawberries
for 25 cents an hour and
then he’d come home late in the day
and play baseball with us in
the school parking lot
before the bowlers
came in their cars
and we had to
call it quits
for the
night.
Paul wore
steel cleats on
the heels of his shoes
that clicked when he walked.
it was the
coolest thing i ever heard.
Paul
had blonde hair.
his father was a drunk
and
his mother
is lost to the memory of time.
he found her
far less
glamorous
and
far more
extreme
than
any woman
he’d ever
known.
he
was
attracted.
he
was
repelled.
and
he never
could figure
out why.
her mouth
was a
ruined white flower.
she
had to
be 80 or more,
but
she stood there,
in the back of the room,
while i
read my poems
to a couple of dozen students
who only
looked tired and bored.
i wasn’t into it
and neither were they,
and all i could see was this mop
of
stringy
grey hair
and
a face that
kept urging me on.
Tina
was
allergic
to man-made
sponges,
gentle
exfoliation
and a guy named
Harold
who
managed to
constantly talk
about Ayn Rand,
The
Fountainhead
and Tina’s
breasts,
none
of which
he fully
appreciated
or truly
understood.
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