IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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POCKETS

Katharyn Howd Machan

Walking down the street she finds her hands jammed into pockets, blue jeans tight across the hips she likes to move to music-- barefoot, hair down, silver tape recorder blaring loud. She's seventeen. Her mother calls her Bluebell just to get a rise, goes off to work the morning shift in almost white shoes and cap and apron, while daughter slouches over Cheerios, sips coffee, stares ahead and thinks how much she hates the smell of books. "Goodbye." And once again "Goodbye" as now she turns a corner stained with leaf tattoos from early rain, pretends she doesn't care that she is pregnant from a skinny man she slept with once, who'll never know, who thinks of her as something he once tasted, might again. She moves along, indifferent to the aching bit of smoke from cigarette she sucks. She's seventeen. All's possible. All isn't. Today at school they'll see a stupid film.

 
 
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