It was 1967 or
Something equally absurd
Two thirteen year-olds
One, a girl,
In the heavy, smoky,
Slaughterhouse air of
Early evening on Cleveland’s West Side
In the window well of an abandoned factory
Under the bridge
His hair slicked back
Four feet below ground
At dusk
Was high on model-airplane glue
and a can of beer;
She was drinking toxic wine
A friend of his bought,
Stuck their hips together
Separated by a white balloon
Her back against the damp brick wall
Her body hurting, shivering
His knees collapsed, she silently cried
He drooled, her mascara ran
And they erroneously learned about love.
Two days later
Two Catholic boys of
The same age,
One was 11 (eleven)
Walking along the railroad tracks
Found a condom;
One of them wrote
This story.
~
First published in Zip Slant Ø, 1980.
