In the Park

nor Sheila, Flora’s tie-dye, hippie clad daughter,
at sixteen the mother of an active toddler,
who pierced my ears with needle and thread,
using clothespins for anesthetic,
while Donna, the neighborhood bully,
looked on from across the road
where she lived with her two mothers,
who were often watched through closed curtains
by the other moms, though they said
it was “okay,”

nor Pete, our broad, balding bus driver,
quick with a smile for the girls
while eyeing the boys with suspicion,
which proved limiting to my health
when he failed to notice Donna,
who crept forward from behind,
to rip the tiny hoops from my ears,
behind bouncing, happy Pete
who didn’t see it coming any more than I did,

nor Mrs. Buller, my third grade teacher
who saw me in the utilitarian terms that people will,
placing me in the corner next to Todd,
who drummed maniacally on our desks,
and on me, until we moved again,

nor my drunken, CB blasting
dumb-ass of a stepfather –
I can say it now, and yes, it feels good –
the first in an unfortunate series,
who moved us ten times in less than three years,
before chasing us out of the house with a knife,
then slitting his wrists
in front of the gawking neighbors,

none of these seemed to see
what was really going on,
except maybe Donna, who realized ahead of me
that no one was in charge.

~~~~~