“He was dead before they pushed him in the river” – overheard conversation
Actually, it was a creek. And he
wasn’t really dead, just
banged up a little. And we
didn’t really push
him in. We wanted to,
spoke of it incessantly;
who would lead
him on, distract him, who
would hide behind the white oak tree,
who would do the deed.
To tell the truth, we never really
hit him though we dreamed
it every night, some with fists,
with rocks, with whisky
bottles rescued from the trash.
Some dreamed of two-by-fours, rough,
splintered. We all dreamed of
mighty blows. Okay, there wasn’t
any river, none of us had seen
a real one, only on TV. We
lived in
alleys. But
there should
have been
a river.
~Margo Solod
Some Very Soft Days
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