You Were Wearing

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.