You Were Wearing

Kenneth Koch

You were wearing your Edgar Allan Poe printed cotton blouse.
In each divided up square of the blouse was a picture of Edgar
 Allan Poe.
Your hair was blonde and you were cute. You asked me, "Do
 most boys think that most girls are bad?"
I smelled the mould of your seaside resort hotel bedroom on your
 hair held in place by a John Greenleaf Whittier clip.
"No," I said, "it's girls who think that boys are bad." Then we
 read Snowbound together
And ran around in an attic, so that a little of the blue enamel was
 scraped off my George Washington, Father of His Country,
 shoes.

Mother was walking in the living room, her Strauss Waltzes
 comb in her hair.
We waited for a time and then joined her, only to be served tea in
 cups painted with pictures of Herman Melville
As well as with illustrations from his book Moby Dick and from
 his novella, Benito Cereno.
Father came in wearing his Dick Tracy necktie: "How about a
 drink, everyone?"
I said, "Let's go outside a while." Then we went onto the porch
 and sat on the Abraham Lincoln swing.
You sat on the eyes, mouth, and beard part, and I sat on the knees.
In the yard across the street was a snowman holding a garbage can
 lid smashed into a likeness of the mad English king, George
 the Third.