IN MY 18-YEAR-OLD ROOM

 

Old photo album

Surfacing like a piece of the Titanic

So many decades

And here’s a snap of

My old South Philly bedroom

 

Dad’s little grocery store

Enabled the buying of Mom’s

Dream home in Jersey

Enabled the buying of my

Dream bed with a canopy

But as Dad said

As supermarkets took over

From the corner groceries

Everything comes a little too late

And yes, the family curse, I can relate

Always a bit too late

For me, too

 

So back to South Philly we go

It was good, loved it there

All my best friends, coffee house hangout

And loads of bookstores

With a City Lights section

To buy black and white paper copies

Of once-banned “Howl”

And all those other Beat Poets

 

So my dream canopy bed was stuffed into

A tiny room where like Paul Simon and

The Beach Boys

I told my secrets to

And being autistic

I had days

Where I touched no one

And no one touched me

 

So take a look at it

I was a so-called artist

And “painted” those pictures

I was a so-called folk singer

And strummed that guitar

Wanted a picture of Che

But Mom said no communists

And bought me her heartthrob

Marlon Brando

Yeah, he looked cool when young

 

If you zoom in on the picture

You’ll see a charcoal sketch of me

When I was seventeen

My main hangout was the Cage

But the owner of the Artists’ Hut

Liked me

Taught me how to run the espresso machine

And a wandering artist sketched me for free

That picture wound up in the fire

Long story

But it’s me

Thrilled as can be

Turning seventeen

And almost pretty

 

Came full circle

I think it’s called

Periodical Repetition

And that’s what I’m doing

All those decades later

Strumming ukuleles

Writing poetry

But instead of painting I’m

Growing stuff to eat

Instead of Brando or Guevera

It’s pictures on my phone

Of sons, granddaughter, and dogs

Circularity

It’s all good…

 

© 2023 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE:  In My 18-year-old Room