last house on the dead end,
no house across the steet
cos the one that used to be there burned down before i was born.
in the field there were old bedsprings,
and tall big-leafed hollyhocks with pink blooms.
i decided they were the ghosts of old church ladies,
bent-backed from slicing pie at receptions.
every morning in summer, i waved to them,
wished them a blessed day,
and waited til i was out of sight to, as mama called it, start up with my bullshit.