bully boys rousted mornings
like roosters, cocking their heads
and shouting.
the little town square
looked plundered, most overnight
revelry dissipating noiselessly
but leaving traces of beer-stained
paper cups all along
the sidewalks, bunching up
in front of Rexall’s.
tidying up, Martha stuck her tongue
out, feeling the damp morn’s cold, and
bully boys jostled her slightly,
eager for McDonald’s
bacon egg and cheese.
she could still hear last night’s
tunes, see the pagoda dripping with parasols,
feel the deep drum of late night.
pausing by the hardware store, she
motioned to herself, a broad smile
recollecting ice cream socials.
those memories bounced off sidewalks
covered by popcorn, and her memory
twitched, searching thirty years
for cup cakes and chocolate icing.
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