It was about the time
that Chucky Parker dove off
the Glen Lake dam, hit his head on
a submerged rock, and drowned
that a black ribbon of tar appeared
running catty corner behind the bench
and flagpole on the town common.
Before that black ribbon appeared,
there was just a dirt path through
the mown grass that muddied up
and was generally an eyesore.
But it was a short cut that made sense,
so it got tarred.
I knew none of the Parkers well,
the kids were all younger than me.
Chucky was probably ten or so
when he died and I have no idea if
my time line fits, but I remember how
smooth that black ribbon was to ride on.
I remember, too, that right behind the
flag pole, in the black ribbon’s middle,
was an odd shaped dip that I always
tried to hit at speed.
The coupling and uncoupling of memory, the knotting and unknotting of writing a sermon as Corny might say in my novel Rivers and Prayers, is something akin to a life force itself – but it is not to be trusted.
If I have erred with Chucky or the Parkers, perhaps someone from this site can correct me or add more information about the Parkers.