Childhood

Let me back in. Grandmother-breasted polyester flowers. Silver creamers. The wallpaper.

A crib upstairs. Dark Polaroids of February Christmas. Picture Lincoln kneeling in the snow. The smell of Dawn. The incredible mother.

The velvet sailor suit. Dark eyes, blonde hair. Yellow amusement parks. Stuffed horse. Rams-Jets.

Oklahoma! piano parties. Endless hors d'oeuvres. Sears catalogues. The banister. A Civil War funeral. Auction house bisque. Cowboys and Indians. Let me bathe with my sister.

Tall grass and urine. Blueberries, adoration. One-man baseball. Ducks and dinosaur robots. A honeypot. The sun. Canasta 

Super Bowls. Antietam. The word fuck is bad.

First fears. Michael's fornication. A tire blew off the car. Timmy ate six Big Macs. Ornamental birds. Killer whales. Record player destruction. Six-year-old sweethearts.

Canning tomato sauce. Never kill ants on the peonies. Mom is making Aimee pose like Hummels. Take a deep breath. The farms come down.

The houses go up. 1st place in the 600. Michael's diarrhea jokes. A Civil War funeral. Lobster tails, cancer, the cayman on construction paper. Poison. People came before me.

The tree. Susanna Hoff has a weird effect. There will be no Little League. Love quadrangles go bad. Guidance counselors. Erection in the mirror.

First oysters. More space. Johnny Carson Bible studies interrupted by front step Civil War deaths. The devil enters with a wooden sign: Ornamental Birds.