Been sitting here for hours,
finding haunted, frightened faces
in the station floor’s contours.
Don’t know whether to be relieved
that the next person I see,
isn’t Dad.
But I was simply standing there
when someone gave me my first beer.
Just before all hell broke loose
in the parking lot of St. Mary’s Church and School.
Everyone saw the squad car.
Everyone but me –
and the boy who got busted with a bong –
but even he’s now free.
The scene’s a constant loop in my head:
beers flying,
friends fleeing,
voices shouting,
me freezing.
Blinded by flashing.
Too late to fling it.
Too late for dashing.
Why did I leave that stupid dance?
I just went to see the band.
Hoping to spark the lead guitar’s flame,
but the flame from a first crush never came.
“Is there someone else I can call?”
I can think of one name, that’s all.
“They have to be adults,” he sneers.
“Dr. and Mrs.” I mumble.
Of course, he knows the teenage sons.
and thinks they’re nothing but trouble.
Dirty, hippy, smartass punks
with long hair and ripped jeans;
thundering laughs and motorbikes,
and EVERYTHING that he dislikes.
At last, a fast-moving figure,
in a tousled wig of blonde,
darts through the doors
with a generous smile
to face the big man with the gun.
A lady of very small stature
she is nearly eclipsed by his size.
“Are you going to tell her why you’re here?”
she looks up to the man and she smiles,
“She doesn’t have to tell me a thing.”
was all she had to say,
stunning the big, little, speechless man
bringing joy to my miserable day.
I suppress the urge to hug her.
But she’ll get a tearful later.
And I’ll be forever grateful
to Inga, my saviour.
Dog-eared Stories 