Jon Ballard
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FRESH AIR, 1971

Monster’s heinous stride, thunder tracked us then.  
Nerve, appetite, we braved raucous blocks, brown- 
bagged salami and cheese heavy as rucksacks. 
Slickers and black buckle-boots the lot. Rain 
we tasted foundry in. Later, lunch scraps lured 
crows our rocks scarcely hit. Windows could still
open: boys stuck their heads through to spit 
whenever teachers stepped out of rooms.  Hours 
that school loved us. We pledged. Map of Michigan
our mitten, we pointed where we came from.
No money trees, adults chided, but the foundry
lasted fifty years and kept lunch pails in white
bread, pickled baloney, spam if men could bear it.
Good grades would get us in, or else a foreman
someone’s father’s uncle knew. Recess, we
watched those stacks spew what we’d tongue later
walking home. Our mothers barked weekends
to go outside and get fresh air: we hung on
clotheslines, hiked without permission to the old
asylum. Glad to gasp some danger. Lungful. 

                              ---Originally appeared in Cimarron Review
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