She asks you how you’re able to be alone
so much. You’re good at it, upbringing. Mama told
you once, remember: early spring, the cold
sunny, dormant playground, harsh, the moan
and whistle of northwest wind through telephone
wires, sycamore leaves not yet unrolled–
nothing moves, nothing to grab and hold,
the desolate realization the world has grown
boring. Went to Mama to complain. She said:
in this life there will be a plenty of times when you
will be on your own. Get used to it. Out there like a fox
on pullets! Get! And have a good time. You head
into the open morning. Nothing to do.
At the monkey bars, hide from the wind in a cardboard box.
©Philip Kimball 2002
first published in Coal City Review #17, Lawrence, KS. 2002