I miss my official
Davy Crockett lunch box
with its sepulchral wombs of food,
bologna and cheese sandwiches
on Bond Bread with
Tastykake Chocolate Juniors.
Forget the carrot slices.
No one preached to me then
about gluten or sugar.
We ate pigs.
I once met Oscar Meyer,
an aging midget in a wiener truck.
I also suffer unutterable longing
for my Donald Duck Pez Dispenser.
My health is fine, so are my teeth,
despite the Fizzies and Flavor Straws
for which I feel an impenetrable mystery
of nostalgia, almost as timeless
as my devotion to comic books like
‘Blackhawk’ and 'Tales from the Crypt.'
We had less outrage then, more fun.
Rainbows of wonder
penetrated the clouds of daily
human failure and injustice.
My favorite Saturday morning shows:
'Ramar of the Jungle' and 'Sky King.'
'Sea Hunt' with Lloyd Bridges,
father of Jeff, was obscure and
beyond my comprehension.
But my heart is still haunted
by Rin Tin Tin and Rusty,
especially the episode when
they were lost on the prairie
and got saved from a stampede
by White Buffalo Woman.
All gone now, all ghosts,
flickering in the dreamtime of YouTube.
Gone with the sound of typewriters
and spring-wound alarm clocks
ticking by my bed.
Gone with Buster Brown Shoes and
Beeman's Black Jack gum.
No one preached to me then.
No one was offended.
Time was a golden-waved wheat field
in the summer wind.