Sandy's Bed
Yes, we wandered into the house---
Door wide open, inviting trespassers;
Others before, autographing the
walls
With streaks of chalk or white shoe
polish.
Nothing of value taken,
Nothing of value left behind;
The bed, iron framed with a thin
stained mattress,
Showed signs of illicit, recent
use.
"I couldn’t say no. Sandy Sarbo,"
Appeared the epigram for a story,
Chalked twice in broad white letters
Across the silent walls.
I see the lone detached admirer,
Male, pimpled, laughing as he slanders
her name,
Suggesting what he, at least,
Never has attained.
I see her half-dressed, smiling,
Painting her own name in broad white
letters,
Giggling from the misplaced wonder
of
First Love.
I see her, teary, scratching the
message,
Knowing the three boys will tell
the story
Differently, "She wanted it,"
No other way to tell her side.
I might flip a three-sided coin,
Cast biblical lots,
Behave as though we might prognosticate
the past,
To no effect.
A name, the face imaginary as the
circumstance,
Written on the wall of an abandoned
farmhouse,
A story hinted at,
A life amid the ruin.
3/19/2000
