Puff & A Prayer

To think of time—of all that retrospection!
Walt Whitman, To Think of Time

Remember the fertile summers we lined up five beds against the wall beneath the window panes, feeling lucky to catch the breeze flitting across the hill where we would watch for the L.A. Unified
School bus to come chugging up past Mountain High Ski area with a hundred happy campers ready to be greeted by our tail-wagging, white fur-shedding Rookie dog. And everything was regular meals, singing songs, guacamole from Fernando if you asked, and that chalk dragon I drew on the rock retaining wall for the kids. Remember the Animal and Science Guys? Ukelele and Magic Guys?  The original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in costume, and that rock star drummer guy still drumming with just one hand. How did he tie that bandana around his head? I never asked. And how was it you came to me once, back in our room with our full bed and four twins, to lay your hand upon my hip socket that felt like bone-on-bone grinding me down a few years to pray for my pain, which I’d gone to the doctor for, but I swear after your touch instantly vanished! At the end of that summer, Jerry the caretaker, asked me to wash Puff the Magic Dragon off from the wall on account of we were renters, and not year-round owners. I never looked back on it until today.

for Real Toads in memory of The Rowdy Ridge Gang Camp

Advertisements

21 thoughts on “Puff & A Prayer

    1. Ah, K, if only I had a book in me. Alas, I only produce poems. Thanks for reading my memory log. I realized there wasn’t a lot of introspection going on, but just a looking back.

Type your words here:

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s