-history in short bursts-

He grew-up with specific information at hand
Prescribed by parental prerogatives,

Local geography and the geography of the interiors.

He processed this information through the years
Of his early life, endeavoring to one day define it.

The procedure was unlike his formal schooling

With its constant crankiness and aloofness;

With its threats and prescriptions for neutrality.

The ancient mariner he had an affinity to

Was his Uncle Frank who took him to his smack

And they slow-motored across the muddy-

Bedded still-waters of Fog Land, then back to the banks

Where they dug for clams through the muck, ankle deep

With their bare feet.

But he liked the nonsense running through the corridors.

But he liked the interesting nuisance in the back row.

But he liked the stars at night,

The openness of the parks;

Hopping the fences for inspired reasons;

The immediate feel of the ball on the bat.

He liked the soft-

Brimmed fedora of his father on its evening hook,—

The keys and pocket ledger on the evening table and the closing

Exhaustion of them.

His school was not prepared for these elements.

He grew-up with the scent of gasoline all around him.

Gasoline from the overpowering nozzles

Of Whitey’s Esso across the street;

From the drag strip's wide-open carburetors of route 24;

Gasoline in the atmosphere from the greasy

Uniforms of the attendants sitting at the crazy lunchtime counters

Of the stainless diner at the base of the Avenue;

From the Junkyard when old man Rachlin

Emptied its useless tanks;

Gasoline from the old, tear-dropped Evinrude

Cradled at the stern of the smack on the dark
Standing waters of Fog Land.

Gasoline before it was sissified.

Inside his house, the sweet-

Acid scent of tomato sauces all but nullify it.

He should have paid more attention in school.

He should have been less easily distracted.

                                                    Quequechan