My Private Wobegon

stories from home

Every porch in Westernport held scandal,
the details of which my cousin whispered
as we rocked on her front-porch glider
covered with a gritty layer of coal soot
from the mill where everybody's father worked.
Across the street was the man whose father killed himself
who lived next door to the lady whose son played with paperdolls
whose house was attached to that of the man who yelled at his wife
and threw rocks at the three-legged dog who gimp-romped past us
every day with the neighbor boys when they went to the ballpark,
shouting at the retarded girl across the way as they passed her porch.
We debated going to watch them play but decided instead
to rock and talk some more on her porch while our precious stacks
of Archie and Jughead, Wonder Woman, and Dick Tracy
lay unread around us on the porch, their stories pale by comparison.