Draft #4

Our Hitchock Childhood

Though we're nowhere near Mount Rushmore,
little snot-nosed pre-teens,
still we imagine Cary Grant granting us
the train's commotion, the great prize
of our coming here.

For here is not the many-storied
buildings of London or even the lost
and decrepit tenements of New York.
No. Here, is my neighbor's house,
which we're tee-peeing.

Bombs of two-ply
hang limply over Spanish Moss
like sheets over a miss-sized bed.
We move around to avoid
the watchful eyes of the night birds.

Sally contemplates
the act of malice as
the Malathion of her childhood
forces her to reconsider time
spent in trivial arguments.

The marauders return
under cover of yellow street lights
as they avoid the gaze
of "mother" as they climb
back in the safety on Bates street.