28 of 31. Vannessa

We played recess in the shale parking lot.
Plotted our runaway in the woods near the donkey pen.
Yes, there was a donkey pen next door.

After lunch, the teachers would tell us to return
to our seats, and we would send secret messages
at the score table.

We wore culottes for gym. Do you even know what
those are?
We dressed up as beach bums in winter,
and were sent home for wigs and dirty books.

I never understood her family, or why they
lived like they did. She never understood
mine, or why we lived like we did.

I called her dog Sheila, even though her
name was Jenny. Her mom took us to the movies.

She asked me why my dog fetched stones instead of
sticks. I had no answer. My dad yelled out warnings
of punishment during Sunday naps.

I gave her a terrible haircut once.
We both played volleyball because it was mandatory.

We took my parents van out for a drive when we were
fourteen and got stuck in the yard.

Now we write poetry and make music.
We visit whenever we’re in the same city.

We still call each other by who
we really are.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in 30 in 30, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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