late Thursday afternoon,
after I had pondered the meaning of the blue choir-boy gown
and satiny orange sash with its four numbers embroidered at the bottom–
sitting outside in the heat and the soft setting sun,
I pulled up weeds/flowers.
they smelled sweet.
they brought memories tumbling into my head,
and so I sat waxing nostalgic–
until some woman in a creamy gold car pulled up to the curb,
idling long enough for us to know each other–
and for me to learn that she did not consider boys
who picked weeds/flowers in their front yards barescarredfoot to be normal,
and that I did not like her taste in music