Home in Time for Dinner
Sept 24 2009


They used to sell chewing gum
in the shape of cigarettes.
We couldn’t wait to smoke.

There’s that shelf
that runs the length of the back car window.
When I was little
I’d curl up to sleep there
on long road trips.
The white noise
of wind, engine, asphalt,
the sudden light
of passing cars.

We rode our bikes
from morning to night,
one gear gliders
that became motorcycles, spaceships,
in baseball caps and Keds
(which were canvas sneakers
that came in white or black
high-top, or regular.)
“Just be home for dinner”
our mothers had said,
and we were gone.

Back then, they could strap us in school —
holding-out our hands
palms up,
the sting of leather.
It was almost worth it,
a minor celebrity at recess.
Back home, we’d get our butts slapped
again —
“for good measure”, they said.
Because the teacher was always right
“and don’t you forget it.”

We ate white sliced bread
powdered milk
TV dinners,
sat around a small screen
black and white, together,
getting-up to change channels
adjust
the rabbit-ear antenna.
There were only 5
3 of which had bad static,
so we pretty much left it
as it was.



In the precarious days of our youth, when everyone smoked, no one wore seatbelts (or bike helmets), corporal punishment was OK, and we deferred to authority, we somehow managed to survive into adulthood. And not only that, but probably enjoyed life more when there was less choice (shoes and channels, for two!), but so much more freedom.