I’m running back there right now,
to that place where
three local channels were the only things to see
on the lone screen in the family room of our house,
and procuring privacy on the phone
consisted of stretching a coiling chord
under my bedroom door.
I need to go back there,
when I was too young to care
who the president was,
or what other people thought
about who the president was.
I long to draw on the smooth slate sidewalk in front of my house
with fat colored chalk sticks
until it’s almost too dark to see what I’m drawing.
Then, when my mom calls me in for supper,
oh, how I hope we’re having spaghetti and meatballs,
with a great big mound of parmesan cheese.