of the afternoon I came face to face with Joan Gasparini's bullet bra

It’s the early 1950’s, and Joan Gasparini shows up at the house

in a creamy, zip-down sweater.

She seems to be a satellite friend of my sister, three years my elder,

because she’s not seen around the house as much as the others.

That’s a shame.

If she did show up with the same frequency she might stay over.

She might wear that sweater again which points the way to my dreams.

Maybe she’ll take a bath before bed. Most of them do. I’d hear her splashing.

I'd find a way.

I was a master of subterfuge while approaching the forbidden zones

whenever my sister’s friends stayed over: Joan'll think

I'm looking for my lost sneaker. She thinks I'm as sweet as "Beaver" Cleaver,

and me, lurking on the wrong side of the door, the bauble known as

Joan Gasparini running in circles around the planet of my thirteen year old head,

and who's to say not even now?