Coming Back to Odell

p
o
e
m
s

From the soft ridge looking down,

the four-bedroom colonials are straighter

          than ever.

They finally locked up Leo Simonetti,

          for indecent exposure

last week, pressed slacks gathered at his ankles,

clutching his hard-on in Miss Plumchin’s

          well-pruned mum garden.

In seventh grade, he had more pubic hair

than anyone in gym class.

I had always wanted to have lunch with the stout Mongoloid

from the special education wing

          who everyday

wore a scuffed football helmet with a labyrinth face mask,

maybe ask him why,

          though I felt him ramming walls.

Where I am the earth is an old couch:

          I’m slipping between cushions.

If only I knew his name, I’d look him up,

          stand naked at his doorstep.

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