stormless

wedged betwixt the majestic moments
involving penn 8 and schoolyard.
there were stormless interludes when the woman
who played host to my parasite
gave me, whether crisp, or thin and wrinkled,
a dollar that smelled like cigaretted hair
and brown paper bags chock pregnant with peanut
shells and unwashed denim knuckles.
a charter to venture off to westy’s to get her a skor bar.
i would buy a cherry cola slice in the glass
bottle that had the styrofoam label
that was so much fun to take off.
the walk back, a simmered saunter.

nobody was around except for that Indian kid
with the dog statues in his front windows.