by Robert E. Petras
Cherry bombs were what me and the boys wanted,
their scarlet explosions, the danger,
the fun fun fun.
Took us a day’s bicycle ride
on a country lane
to a reclusive country store, but
all we got for our paperboy money
was candy and soda pop
and wading in a creek
at a hole called Coulter’s Rock.
As we coasted our bikes
back onto the road
a car screeched around the bend
a door flung open flinging a baby
into the weeds,
Screaming.
The driver swooped over that kid
and snatched him into the crook of his arm
Drove off.
All I remember of the guy
was his nose and face were all red
and the lit cigarette protruding
from his mouth like a wick
and that he was lugging that kid
like a loaf of bread,
not the way, my coach coached me,
to carry a football as I banged my way
through the line of scrimmage,
keeping my head up, always.
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