back river
riding a bicycle
without training wheels
my father never rode one
I ride one still
our landlord then
owned the tavern too
smokey and dark
where I took the rent
a neighborhood woman
in her brassiere
waters her garden
watching me
and the man who owned
the ice cream truck
I knew his son
“Bullet”
up late watching
“My three sons”
poor confused Ernie
everybody liked him
young painted turtles
plowing their way
out of the sand
headed for back river
