Chronomixed Poem
For my local poetry group that meets once a month, the prompt for June was to write a poem of mixed chronology. The sample poem given was “How I Knew Harold,” by Debra Harding.
Here is mine.
EVERYTHING BECAME RIGHT WITH THE WORLD
Around 1969, my mother cuts out “Sugar Sugar” by The Archies for me from the back of a Honeycomb cereal box. I play it over and over. And over. And over. And over. Until my mother says, “Enough!”
Around 1972, we drive toward my grandparents’ house in Florida. I spend Christmas on the beach and swim in the Gulf of Mexico on an 85-degree day. My parents go to Miami for New Year’s and the Orange Bowl. I watch it on TV, wishing I could be there.
Around 1981, we walk by a house with a pool late one summer night and jump in. Sweetman and Winter gang up on me, pull off my tighty-whities and toss them in the deepest part. A flashlight appears at the fence. I run across Pacific Street wearing only my Nikes.
Around 1979, my friends come up to me at school and say, “I didn’t know that.” “I didn’t know that.” “I didn’t know that.” I learned a week or two later my dad spoke that line several times in a local car dealer ad.
Around 1973, I call up KOIL radio, the Mighty 1290, and request “No More Nice Guy,” by Alice Cooper.
Around 1998, I’m almost 33. I walk across a stage, in cap and gown, and get a diploma for the first time in my life.
Around 1975, I get up way too early on a Saturday. It’s not quite light and still cold. I climb up into the cab of a red, white and blue steam engine, hitched behind a black one. A few hours later, we stop to take on water. In my Norman Rockwell haircut, I poke my head out of the cab into the glorious Indian Summer. Looking at the people gathered trackside, I think, “Whoever isn’t taking a picture of me is nuts.”
Around 1989, the Stones are in Ames, Iowa. During a lull, Mick sees me jumping straight up and down. He starts doing the same thing.
Around 1970, my dad reads an animated neon sign as it lights: “GAS GAS GAS GAS GAS BONUS.”
Around 1974, a nightmare frightens me awake. It’s the middle of the night and I’m shook. My hand finds the transistor radio under my pillow and turns the switch. “Will It Go ‘Round In Circles” plays. In an instant, everything became right with the world.
Around 2005, my sister-in-law collapses. She stays in a coma for five weeks and never wakes. She leaves her husband and four children.
Around 1999, we go to Richmond. My father is ill. He struggles for words. His dentures lodge nearly halfway down his throat and stay that way for nearly half the day. His wife finally notices as she prepares dinner.
Around 1976, a full-busted local celebrity wearing a tube top teaches me how to play pool.
Around 2017, I finally get to New England. It’s been a string of miracles getting there. Every day, I’m the last to bed and the first to rise. I walk to the beach and photograph the sunrise. One day – the last day – there’s a colonial flag hanging out of a boat shop window. I neglect shooting it.
But I have found poetry.
