-Textures of Youth-

When I was five, pressing my cheek to things
was better than television.
I remember the carpet, where I could feel
each spring and poke of tan jellyfish fiber.

Or an addled metal pole with spots where
the paint chips and
slowly opens its cold blossoms.
Deeper than purple,
with a pang like mandarin oranges.

I would let car windows turn on their
Zambonis and smooth my temples
so the all-skate could resume
its clockwise tingling.

A wooden porch, with its prickle army
and long noodle edges.
There’s a twisting. It marches to war
with pinch banners held high.

My mom’s skirt. Hornets and
flitting wings. A wooden firmness
that heaves–  oceanic as she walks.

Then there were trees
their flaky baked-with-craisins.
An occasional baguet,
or rooty dumpling.

I could get lost in a good
book while it impressed lines
and creases. The page edges
pointing frantically at my drool.

The lawn. Grass frenetically mixing
vodka tonics, while it takes orders
from thirsty dirt clumps. A bar
rag moves suddenly to clean up a spill.

Now, mostly I press my own knuckles.
Their marbles and twigs while I stare
and I cannot remember.

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