Crab Orchard Review, Vol. 15, No. 1

Dick AllenSmall HometownI knew it end to end, from lake to hills,from donkey-baseball field to farmand small pine wood. I knew each house,each street, the fountain in the park,library, post office, wooden war memorial,Gorsline’s grocery store, our school,our school’s maypole, swing, and slide,porches, paths, and shortcuts, Mrs. Oateslooking from her window, Mr. Meager’s car,Miss Walker’s shame. I knewtarred roads, how Mrs. Morris stayedup reading until dawn, the Coshburns grewtheir huge sunflowers, Mr. Winters cleanedhis guns, young Mrs. Hawkes refusedall medicine and died. I walkedand ran and rode my bicyclecontinually. Raspberries were minefrom thorny hedges. I chased after squirrels,listened to crows flocking into cornand played beneath dim streetlights. WhenDecember came, I dragged my sledup Crescent Road and then slid down.I was a kid, I had a dog, I ownedthe morning paper route. I talkedBrooklyn Dodgers with the best. One nightI caught a hundred blue and greenfireflies on my lawn. On Halloween,I dressed up in a devil’s suit,my brother was a Christmas box,our friends were ghosts.…Someonewas always cutting down an elm,or sweeping sidewalks clear,22 u Crab Orchard Review