The Trouble With Boredom

Fish shacks made out of wood scraps

and old rusted zinc sheets, these were

the houses I remembered most.

Their nooks and crannies resonated

under the weight of children at play,

scratching the linoleum floors.

Bats flew into the living room

for a ringside seat of a dubbed

Perry Mason rerun.

I’d cover my hair and scream.

Living was often in black and white,

no worse than mother making us wash

our hands every time we walked

in the house.  We had more

handkerchiefs than shoes.  

I’d stop by the pharmacy

on my way home from school

to eye the records, Zippos, and Bulovas.

Bought my first Beatles album there,

swapped that Bulova my aunt

gave me on my 13th birthday

for Vetiver.  Days were as slow

as a horse showing up

in our living room on a hot,

rainy day.  It wouldn’t move,

it just stood there for as long

as it rained, three or four days. 

Mother would scream: shoot it. 

I’d wait until it dropped dead.

©  Sergio A. Ortiz.  Publisher:  Flutter Press, 2009