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