A haunted monument to public education
it towers, frowning down upon us:
outsiders, miscreants, deserters,
insults to the glory of the state.
We stare back up at it and stick out our tongues
in defiance, laughing –
how lucky we are not to be inmates.

Each of us takes a turn on the paved slopes
leading to the field – from the sidewalk,
we bolt through the gaps in the chain link fence.
The speed makes us dizzy,
so we name them Cheetah’s Tail and Chicken Run,
(Fitting titles, we think).

The electricity of yesterday’s practice charges
the field – we feel it tickle our tires as we
make zigzags and figure-eights in the turf.
The youngest notices a used rubber by the fence
and thinks it’s a candy wrapper.

We cross the country behind the building
from Maine to California, and visit places
we’ve never been, (like Maine and California).
My wheels sit in Oklahoma and Ohio at the same time
and my sister is touring the coastline.
The youngest waves to me from Georgia.
“It’s hot down here,” she says.

I stand on the edge of the blacktop where I once ruled,
back when I belonged here – back when I uprooted
the patches of poa pratensis beneath the oaks, during recess,
and replanted them next to the pavement,

much like I have now been uprooted and planted
beneath the roof of the raised ranch across the street
which separates us from them.

We make concentric circles around the stones and mortar,
glancing into each room as we ride by:
desks, chairs, the average and exemplary
artwork venerated on classroom walls ––
I remember the long days spent dreaming of freedom,
and spending recess inside for doodling during math,
(I was never good at math).

The streetlights stutter to life. Taking our cue,
we trail off down the slopes, racing over the sea
of grass and dirt. Down the road, across the street,
to have dinner in our classroom.

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Empty strings of lights
droop from domesticated trees outlining
the streets. Like a wasteland flecked with
stray sightseers, trinket lovers,
            shot-glass collectors.

But these cobblestones pay mute tribute
to the stonemasons of The Neck,
Casco Bay recalls its tea-loving settlers,
and all that was once Machigonne
            is not gone.

It’s just hiding behind the pub
on the waterfront, where characters
from a thirty-something mid-life crisis film
parade the midnight streets in drunken agony,
            pining.

            “Resurgam!” cries the phoenix, rising
            from the ashes of Independence Day fires.

In summer the streets swarm
with transplants from Boston
and commuters from Cape Elizabeth,
all piloting Mazdas, Mustangs, Mercedes-Benz.
I feel scaly and disoriented – today’s catch packed in crates,
            out of water.

Every fourth they swarm the harbor,
separated from the low-income residents
and wandering non-residents of Munjoy Hill who lean
their swaying bodies against the remaining battlements
            of the U.S.S. Maine.

Now there’s a gap in the harbor
where the Queen Mary sat last summer.
We paid 20 bucks for a tour boat,
and circled her girth. “Look! Natives!”
they might have cried, leaning forward
            in their deck chairs.

She spewed forth tourists to help
the economy. They enjoy our fishing boats,
our lobsters, our accents. They call this
            Vacationland,

because they don’t live here.

I remember you in pieces as clear and sharp
as that photograph gleaming under the lamp: me and my sister,
and you, effortlessly cradling one in each brown arm,
your soft white hair draped over your scalp,
and the mountains and valleys of your forehead
deepened in the way you raised your eyebrows to smile.

I remember your vernacular: lobsters were “hobby-lobbies”
and like a regular paisan you told everyone who frustrated you,
“fa Nabola!” I was a fraff and my sister was a mackerel,
and you (mis)pronounced ricotta and proscuitto
like the relatives you’d never met back in Teano.

I remember one Halloween my dad brought me and my sisters
to visit you and Nana Claire. My bag was overflowing
with lollipops by the time we left.
You dressed up like a scarecrow and stood still
so we would think you were real.

You forgot to close the bathroom door one day,
but I guess old people forget things like that.
My dad once said you were “losing it” but not
what “it” was. I would have found it for you.

I remember you always wore polo shirts and khakis,
and you smelled smoggy, like your cigars.
I probably should have told you those were bad for you.

Then I remember the day my dad
picked me up from school in ‘91.
“Grandpa’s gone.” Just gone.
As if you’d left on vacation.
But the words fell to the ground like lead,
in dead thumps.

I remember we didn’t cry the walk home.
I held the straps of my backpack
and watched the ground move beneath me.
And I remember thinking:

No more lollipops.

The cold night of December saw Indians abroad
      with white features.
The Masons did not meet that night, they were:
      “Involved with tea.”
Leaning upon the dark, cloaked in feathers
      and deerskins.
The rumblings of war distant troubled the hearts
      of the sleeping.
Lady Liberty’s sons petitioned her cause, making
      a saltwater brew.
“Hutchinson made us do it,” they explained, wiping the leaves
      from their feet.
When in the course of human events, a strong voice is heard,
      to rouse even the weak,
keep your Chinese potions, East India,
      we prefer Arabica.

Choices, decisions, rumbling stomachs.
Mark heeds his with greater voracity, orders
a bit high for his budget. Leaves with fifty in change,
and four burgers.

Jean-Martin is weighing his options heavily.
Stomach or wallet? He opts for the wallet,
walks away with two burgers and an extra buck to boot.
Enough to satisfy.

The homeless man out on the street named Bob
holds out his hand for merely a trifle:
“A sandwich,” he desires, in simplest terms.
Jean-Martin contributes his dollar to the cause,
Mark keeps his change,

and is still hungry.

Panicking, racing (as fast as possible),
Searching for shelter from the heat
of the cruel heartless sun,
cruel heartless steps.
Slowing, stopping, drained.

Tiptoeing through the graveyard,
Stepping carefully among the bodies,
Pitying the careless clitellata,
Decaying on the pyre of a sidewalk.
Pecking beaks devouring the remains.

Cheese, cheese! O marvelous cheese!
Muenster and cheddar and jack,
One bite and I cannot turn back.
Pass the Beano if you please.
More cheese!

Cheese, cheese! I miss you dear cheese!
Since the fateful day the good doctor said
“Ma’am sadly never must you be fed
milk, ice cream, or dairy, nor cheese.”
Poor cheese!

Cheese, cheese! Understand cheese,
My stomach can never digest you,
the enzymes, they don’t really like you,
and I must respond to their pleas.
Bye cheese…