Recall that green town
on the oak-grown plateau,
squat stone structures
iron-shuttered, strung
along the running creek
long stripped of gold.
Tanned boys shamble
up the highway in summer,
inner tubes over torsos,
headed for the eddy.
Logging trucks grumble
down Utica grade.
Blackberries ripen
in Rachel’s garden:
fat purple dactyls
dangle from brambles
behind the rustling
hedges of corn.
In a sweltering kitchen
Mom bottles peaches,
nudging steamed glasses
on her sweaty nose,
itching inside elbows
from raspy peels.
Dad tries to print
Sunday bulletins
in the cool cave
of the church basement,
inked as for fingerprints,
cursing the mimeograph.
Dan lets me come along
to swim in the pool at Roger’s,
with the tire swing, the ponies,
the shed with sweet hay.
They let me ride the bicycle,
the only girl, the youngest.
Now — we must pass
the dog-watched house.
Roger throws rocks to ward off
the Doberman, yelling for me
to hustle by, stirring the dog
to frenzy, holding it at bay.
I turn and ride the other way.
I’ll pedal forever, never
arrive, a dangling blackberry
in a dozen winters,
peach-fuzz itch that won’t
wash off, purple-finger ink,
an endless shamble toward
the gold-stripped creek.