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.