Spring in the Yard with No GrassA Poem by My Name is Brenda and I'm a Writer
I nap on a brown army blanket and I am content.
I breathe in the smoke from Daddy’s Chesterfield cigarette and his Old Spice Cologne
I ignore the gumballs under the blanket.
I count the flowers in the linoleum on the kitchen floor.
I memorize my phone number and the pictures in my Little Golden Library Book.
I like the flowers best – the yellow ones that look like butter.
The flowers on the linoleum are red.
The television is always on as
The World Turns
If I open the cupboard under the sink will I still find your whiskey bottle there?
Does your ironing board still crowd the dining room where no one eats together?
Do you still have the ashtray I brought you from Luray Caverns?
Do you still catch your toe under our worn carpet and cuss at the dog?
Have you shot him yet?
Do you still write me everyday in your mind?
Can I come home again?
Where rabbits hutch in Aunt Irma’s backyard.
Where Bill Mackey’s motor scooter dives down a hill that seemed steeper then.
Where you are still young and you tie a perfect bow in my sash and send me off starched and ironed to conquer the first grade.
Where the houses on both sides are filled with people who love me.
Where you stand on the front porch and holler “It’s Howdy Doody Time” and I run home to you.
© 2008 My Name is Brenda and I'm a WriterReviews
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5 Reviews Added on July 3, 2008 AuthorMy Name is Brenda and I'm a WriterFalls Church, VAAboutMy first novel was inspired by my own childhood on Pungo Creek in rural North Carolina where I grew up in a house shared by three generations. It seems it took a lifetime to write but it was actually.. more..Writing
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