POKEBOE

My brother,

Lying in the back open space,

Of our family’s 60’s Chevy wagon,

Used to like to hang his feet over the back

Of the back seat,

Where my sister and I sat,

His feet between us.

We called them,

Pokeboes.

We made up stories about them.

The smelly one we called,

Garbage Scow Pokeaboe.

My brother and sister,

Sketched,

Beautiful, colorful drawings of them,

And I looked on them as works of art.

We drove across the country that way,

Miles across open space,

In summer, the window open,

Wind and heat flowing in,

Making up stories to pass time and space.

We were together,

In a world of infinite possibility, love

And smelly feet.