SAY NOTHING 1958

KIDS IN LONDON IN 1958 AND A SPIDER.

Lydia's brother Hem
ran from me when he
realized I was going
to poke him one
for putting a spider
down the back of her
drab grey dress,
and made her scream.

I'd seen him
from the balcony
outside my parent's flat,
as I looked down
in the Square.

I ran down
the concrete stairway
as fast as I could,
but he'd gone before
I was in the Square.

Lydia was by
her doorstep crying,
putting a hand down
her back as far
as she could reach.

Where is it, Benny?
She said.

I pulled back the top
of her dress,
peered down.

Can't see it,
I said.

Where'd it go?
She said anxiously.

I let go of the top
of her dress.

She tapped her body.

Maybe it jumped out,
I said.

She tapped her bottom,
then sat down
on the red-painted doorstep.

I sat next to her;
I'll get him when
I see him, I said.

She wiped her eyes
on an greyish handkerchief
from the dress pocket.

He's always doing that,
she said.

Want to go for a 1d drink
from the penny shop?
I said.

And blackjacks
and fruit-salads sweets too?
She said.

Sure,
I said.

So we walked through
the Square.

I told her
about my new catapult;
how the old one
had broken.

She told me
about her sister,
and the boyfriend,
and how they do
funny things in the night
when she pretends
to be asleep
in the cot bed.

But her mum
shook her finger
at her;
say nothing to your dad,
she said.