before Dallas

was it ever

that way.

church on sunday.

the corner store

with a cooler of cold bottes

of grape nehi

and orange soda.

the neighbors greeting

you with a nod,

a tip of the hat,

a wave.

did you ever know every

kid

within ten miles

of where you lived.

playing stick ball in the street.

four square

and hide and seek.

did you camp

in the back yard, disappear

for the day

to forage the woods,

to roll up

your pants

to walk in a stream.

did you fish

in the river with your friends.

did your father

wash his car

in the driveway

with a cold

beer in hand. his radio on.

was that your mother

whistling

at the clothes line, 

a pin at the ready between

her lips.

were dogs ever on

a leash,

did your parents help

you

with your shoe

laces,

your homework,

stuffing your lunch box

with good things

to eat.

did you wash behind

your ears, brush your teeth.

say your prayers

before you fell asleep.

it all seems like a dream,

all of it

occurring before Dallas,

before 1963.