A Little House in Wyandotte by Scott Silsbe

I can’t remember too much about the little house on 21st Street.
If I have this right, I was only 2 or 3 years old when we moved.
One cloudy memory is watching Batman and Robin on the fat,
ugly television in our front room, worrying about them, as they
were tied up to a buoy out in the middle of the ocean or a lake.
I think it was that same room where I once ate a penny, curious
what it would taste like, then accidently swallowing it, sending
me and my folks to the hospital. One thing I think I remember
is driving my big wheel down the sidewalk, seeing a plane up
in the sky over me, making me sing The Alan Parsons Project.
It’s a little difficult to differentiate the stories I’ve been told
about my childhood and the things that I actually remember.
One day there in Wyandotte, me and the neighbor boy Mikey
got hungry and decided to eat some of the bright red berries
off the bushes in front of his house. It wasn’t a very good idea.
I can see both of us boys there, each bent over a parent’s legs,
crying, vomiting up those sickly red berries into plastic buckets.

Scott Silsbe was born in Detroit and now lives in Pittsburgh. His poems have recently appeared in numerous periodicals including Nerve Cowboy, Chiron Review, and The Chariton Review. He is the author of two collections of poems: Unattended Fire and The River Underneath the City.

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