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Out
Back Behind The Barn
By Mary Ann Carr
Out back behind the barn,
I rode the range as Roy Rogers, chasing outlaws
Astride a quilt tossed over a paint-stained sawhorse.
I chased outlaws then ate Twinkies sitting by the fire,
a pile of tiny sticks I had gathered from the yard.
Out back behind the barn,
I paged through the diary
Ma bought me at Ben Franklin's.
Bound in red imitation leather, it offered a sympathetic ear
and listened to my secrets each day for almost a year.
Out back behind the barn,
I practiced doing the twist
in my yellow organdy gown, dreaming of my prom.
Then, humming "Teen Angel," I raised my arms
To Pat Boone's shoulder and danced til my hands numbed.
Out back behind the barn,
I sat on the morn of my wedding
To Samuel Shoemaker who I met in History 101.
I pictured myself dressed in white,
the lace of my peignoir slipping off my shoulder.
Out back behind the barn,
I went in search of little Sam
Whenever he didn't come in for supper.
And there I would find him, sitting as I once sat,
Alone, his eyes focused on sights only he could see.
Out back behind the barn,
I searched the ground the day I turned sixty,
Looking for footprints of children I would never live to see,
I wondered who their Roy Rogers would be
When one day they ride the range, out back behind the barn. |
In that secret place
where fantasy reigns
By David
J. Carr
In that secret place where
fantasy reigns,
Imaginary trails without end,
Reality abandoned, constraints removed.
No one to tattle when the barn
almost caught fire.
In that secret place where
fantasy reigns,
Lost in reflections, unedited curiosities revealed.
What would mother think?
In that secret place where
fantasy reigns,
Swaying to music un-played,
An apparition of beauty and cool was I,
The envied queen of my Junior prom.
In that secret place where fantasy reigns,
Is it apprehension or
excitement I feel most
As my love carries me over the threshold.
Will he notice?
In that secret place where
fantasy reigns,
Where all is right, my childhood sanctuary.
Maternal panic. Will he be there?
Foolish me, I should know better,
I am my son, my son is me.
In that secret place where fantasy reigns,
Bent by age, I ponder continuity beyond life.
One by one, descendants appear as tickling breezes.
Does it really matter at all,
they ask,
In that secret place where fantasy reigns.
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