During our family’s Paleozoic era,
we used watermelon rinds for pickles
and as compost for fishing worm
colonies behind the box elder tree
Our chore was to dump the remains
in the backyard garbage can
where ghostly maggots squirmed
inside the lid
The burial done, we hurried from
the rank odor of spent coffee grounds
and sludge of leftovers to pass through
the fume of freshly mown bluegrass
Dinner dishes wiped dry, stacked in cabinets,
mom and dad laughing and reporting
the day’s news on the front porch swing,
we dashed shirtless and barefoot
in homemade shorts past the wooden
bowl of apples on the dining room table
to feel the soft breezes of early evening
across the smooth skin of our youth:
All big ears and teeth when we were perfect
examples of The Classical Period before
the uprising known as The Days of Rage