John had problems.
But so did all of us.
This is not my story
to tell -yet
there are girls
who went
to his house to
see if he was
kidding about
baking himself
in his mom’s oven,
and they learned
that he wore
boxer shorts
and slathered
himself with
oleo margarine,
and in fact,
could hardly get
a leg in the pre-heating
oven before tipping
the whole thing
forward onto
the linoleum with a crash
at the exact time
his mom pulled
up in the driveway
with the groceries.
The girls lit out
through the front
door and while each
saw something
different they
felt the burn
in their bellies
nevertheless.
Sworn to secrecy
I only
heard about it
years later
when we were
drinking wine
and reminiscing
about the old days and
all I missed by passing
on the invitation.
No regrets for me.
But my belly burns
for us anyway.
Early Morning Poems 