magic key

Driving south in the heat, talking to a bearded Hitch-Hiker, I flash on the Lake.

The way we used to fish with balls of white-bread on the ends of our lines.

Quiet on a Sunday morning, while mass was being held in the chapel across the street.

I remember the way our soda bottles would collect sand on the outside,

and some always ended up in my mouth,

mingling with the Coke or Root-beer or Orange Crush.

When we took the bottles back we’d get three pennies,

spent on bubble-gum.

Those bottles needed to be opened with a magic key.