We spent off-days playing hide-and-seek
and kept secrets in seed catalogs, dog-eared and crusted.
A wobbly Victrola bounced Hallelujah, I'm A Bum
off the two-families.
Every Friday night at ten, flat-footed palookas
bloodied each other for pocket change
on a snowy round-screened Stromberg-Carlson.
Strangers came and went
some promenading through the grape arbor
and into the amusement park
where a troll squirreled-away recyclables.
The music of the midway swept us into other rooms.
We wandered through berry patches
taking care not to disturb the picnickers.
Someone suffered a memory lapse
and appeared in Who's Who.
Leaves turned inside out and were bagged
by majorettes who popped up from sidewalk cracks
insinuating themselves into our dreams.
The changing of the guard didn't.
We worried that it was akin to nothing.
And it was, or wasn't, I'm not sure.
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