Here come two girls running at me hard
and plump, thudding, almost falling, flailing
arms, 12, maybe 13, coughing laughter,
spitting with it, splitting up to
dodge around me and an old guy
with his old dog, mom with stroller;
rejoin, reach with their hands like passing
the baton, like stretching for the gold ring,
keep running while screaming—
Me and Ti-Anne dawdle home from 7th grade.
The street long, downed leaves whisking
on sidewalks, lawns. Ahead, a mailman
in uniform shorts it’s getting too cold for,
his legs all hairy. Ti-Anne does or J start;
I join or she does, nice legs, ooh baby,
got mail for me? Ti-Anne tips her head back
to open her throat, lets out such a scream
like a whistle a boy makes with two fingers
in his mouth. Whit-wheeeewwww! I can’t do it
so hey Legs! I yell I love your hairy legs!
The mailman keeps digging in his sack,
walking up and down porch steps that sag,
snapping rubber bands off mail stacks,
slides envelopes in slots, Oooh Mr. Legs,
doesn’t he hear us? now we’re caught up—
Ti-Anne grabs my arm, hissy snickers
hh hh hh trying to hold in our laughter
almost feels like being sick, our eyes watering,
faces hot with it—the mailman turns,
squints, smiles wide: “Thanks for the whistles
and comments, ladies!” He raises his brows,
makes a face full of wrinkles, he winks—
Ti-Anne shrieks or I do—we take off
screaming at a joke I don’t get but it
scares me we know if we don’t stop
we’ll fall down will die of it but
can’t stop running while screaming.
Running while Screaming
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