MAIN STREET

by Jason Irwin

From the front porch we guessed
colors of cars, drank lemonade
out of paper cups and listened
to the Kapinski kids get beat
by their mother. That dissonance
reverberated through back yards
where Virgin Marys kept vigil
in bathtub grottos and old man Tilly,
senile and drunk, promised
to pulverize us for throwing rocks
at his truck. Twenty years now

since he surrendered
to the Elks Memorial Home and the Kapinskis
moved to some God forsaken dump
like Des Moines or South Dayton
after their mother's fourth husband
realized he was a woman, trapped
in the wrong movie. I think of them,
wonder what became of Priscilla,
who showed me her privates
behind the rabbit cage when we were nine.
Timmy and George, all teeth, sandy hair and bruises
no one ever questioned, not even
Miss Butler, who taught third grade.

I remember Sally too, blue as the swimming pool
where they found her, too young
to read Hamlet or cross the street alone.
Sometimes I drive by the old house
on Main Street . I can still see them,
faces and fists against glass.