Some of our activities were normal,
like playing school in Peggy's basement,
the one where the creek ran through,
trading "funny-books" (now called comics)
and playing cut-outs, our reality shows--
those paper dolls knew a thing or two.
When life got dull, and we needed thrills,
we'd ride our bikes up and down the hills
that filled the lot across the street
where "Arch" and "Water" happened to meet.
The butcher shop was on the corner
and provided entertainment galore,
even when we took a note from Mom
and bought our groceries from their store.
but the other end of the red brick building
kept the steers confined till they met their fate,
and the neighborhood kids all loved to watch--
for the slaughtering time they'd gravely wait.
Then, hanging on the bottom of the double door
we'd watch for hours as the skin was peeled
and the carcass cut with a well-trained knife,
steaks and chops and hamburg to yield.
Well, the thrills are over for another day,
but there's still the creek where we can play,
so off we'd go down the little bank
and look for solid stones to cross.
By the way, the sewer lines drained into our creek,
so if we fell in, it was our stinky loss.
Sometimes there were fights-- I remember well
the day I thought I was pretty swell;
I thought I could beat up that kid, Big Red,
so I walked up and challenged him,
You gotta know that he was tough,
and I was a tomboy, but puny and thin.
You know the story, the fight was won,
but not by me--Big Red was the one!
When you start thinking about childhood days,
and how you lived with your childhood ways,
the story could go on where your memory leads it,
but no one would stick around to read it .
I must say, this poem is no prize winner,
so feel free to go now and eat your dinner.
Why did I start this anyway? Oh, yes, the challenge. Oh, my.