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Afternoons in Voorheesville
from hilltops my cousin and I hurled
beady black rocks against a train--
arms cocked like sunburned bee-bee guns,
swearing and spitting, eyes wild.
when we were bold enough to climb tough roots
to tracks, we played amongst flies spilling over
half-flattened possums and snakes too slow to beat the whistle.
once, we crossed and found a blue-violet clearing,
found dry jaws of crooked teeth clamped,
found hives of gnats,
rusted box springs
and antique coca cola bottles filled with slugs.
on the way home, we stacked pennies on steel tracks
and said goodbye to the white tongues
and flies.
Jordan-- a fibber at twelve, covered in freckles,
feared by ants and bored old dogs,
feared by my mother for being too
was a good friend,
was country fried,
was crazy-eyed and foul mouthed,
always seeming to know when the graffiti stripped
D & H line would come gleaming through.
my mother never understood where all those
half-flattened pennies came from
hanging like gold from
my eyes
John Comitale
Junior, Creative Writing
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