We ate thick boloney on white bread.
There was no place for hand washing
and what farmer cared anyhow?
Tobacco gum had to be scrubbed, hard.
She’d ask whose boy that was walking by
or had we heard about the Wheeler girl.
My legs never reached the floor.
That wood stool was too tall. I swung them,
tapping the support rods;
suppose I kept time to conversations
while the coca-cola clock clicked seconds
until the years stopped it hands.