McCumber’s Junkyard

It was Disney World

for poor kids,
those hot days
playing inside
rusty car bodies
at the junkyard.

One red wedge
high heeled shoe
from the dumpster

and I was not that
frizzy haired girl
from Palm Tree
Trailer Court.

I was Cinderella
in a gold coach.

Donny Jonson
was not
a frog face boy
whose old man
was doing time
in San Quentin.

He was a prince
with tail pipes,
greasy chains
and a deflated
bicycle tire

who was going
to make
a ferris wheel

that would lift us high
above the stench
of aluminum roofs
and cheap grape wine

to wish on a planet
we thought was a star.

Those were the days
before we grew
tall enough
to find out

we were just
goofy losers

without tickets
or admittance
to anything

on the wrong side
of everything

and we were
dreaming
in a steaming
heap of lies.

A prolific writer, you can check out Julie's writing at http://juliebuff.wordpress.com/.

Poetry