Verge

stole the white
transistor radio
in brown leather case
my father never missed it

sat beneath the tree
that everyone claimed
bore figs once
then never again

captured and pilfered
baby birds that were kept
under the ribs of the dead boat up on sawhorses
until they flew or died  (either fate was thrilling)

under there
first my fort
then later
my palace of ill repute

hideaway for play-groping
with neighborhood girls
before any of us understood
tightrope of good touch

obsessing over pop music
learning every song
wrestling in the shade
under the dead boat

voting in favor of tightrope
of good touch
along the ribs
dreaming of figs