why worry her

we'd go down to the river
to
shoot cans
and bottles with the one
b b gun between us
four boys.
all in dungarees
and striped polo shirts.
our hair clipped
in crew cuts.
chuck taylor's on our
feet.
our mothers had no clue where
we were
for nine hours of the daylit
summer day.
just be home for dinner,
she'd say. don't get run
over. don't talk to strangers
and stay away
from the river. you'll fall
in and drown.
we all made it back each
late afternoon.
tired, hungry, thirsty.
dirty.
full of stories, meeting hoboes
in the woods.
stealing melons from
the farm along the way.
hitchhiking home.
tales, she'd never hear.
why worry her.