Reunion

by Peter Bushyeager

They want me back in that town
to argue about the spindly
silver-painted cannons
in front of the two-bay firehouse:
which war was it?

They want me back with
the volunteer ambulance chief
riding in his high-finned antique Cadillac
with an echo chamber built into
the back speaker for
an underwater sound.

They want to reminisce about
the old polio pit with
steep concrete steps down to the
green opaque mossy water
and the swimming instructor with
purple scars between her toes
where the webs were excised.

Scarlet crepe paper streamers
ripped from the high school dance
used to bleed and flow on
the wet boys’ room floor
just like wine and they’re reliving
Jive vs Conservative gang fights
in somebody’s basement
set up as a club
where they remember the town.

They don’t really want me
to come back but they insist
because they know I don’t want to.
They talk about bringing everyone together
one last time in the
halls of the old school
a handful of fast knuckles
briefly ground into the
groin ouch that
hurts well it
ain’t supposed to tickle.

I know what they say about
the snows of yesteryear and
I don’t want to get
caught in that trap.
I don’t mean drifts or spinning tires I mean
the past made tasty
to package the present
when probably someone back then
already knew who would go early
and all the future bright spots.