Suburban Barricades
In a box someplace there’s
a photo, black
and white, me and some
others clustered near
the curb in the standard
garb for that place,
that time, heads like
spuds under waxed crew cuts,
dead ringer I was for the
kid in the
ad on the back of the
Marvel mags, the
grainy one for Grit, doughy and pealed (who
answered those things
anyway?) all of us
arrayed around the knife
man squeezed into
his three wheeled ride, a
rolling phone booth, a
giant boot, dirge bell
giving him away
blocks away, giving our
mothers time to
gather their dull blades and
dance out the door
brandishing boning and butcher,
paring and steak, carving
and bread knives, shears,
dull steel in need of
honing, headlong for
the street, in another
place, another
time well-armed partisans
rushing to fill
a gap in the barricades
bristling with
arms, our glorious mothers
repelling
the final charge while we
look on askance,
Phrygian caps hiding
potato heads.
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