Sunsets in 1962

by Josh Tomblyn

I was made of lead
and romance, then: I ate
all the mashed potatoes
and peas
and meatloaf
my mother cooked
on her Tappan stove, in her tiny
kitchen, in the
small farmhouse my father
did not build. Carol

visited twice and,
at fifteen, she really was
no beauty, but she believed
in winter
and so did I--
we walked in it
until our toes grew
numb, then we went back,
with reluctance,
to the small farmhouse, listened

to Chubby Checker, and ate
corn on the cob. We kissed
a half dozen times,
tremblingly,
in the corner of the kitchen
where my mother slept
after my father
had gone out
too often. Carol

let me fire her shotgun, once. I
aimed it into the dark woods,
aimed it
at the darkness
and pulled the trigger, and
the recoil knocked me down.
I saw her smile; she was
no prettier,
then, when she smiled. But what
did it matter? She believed
in winter,
and so did I. She's gone

now,
in this new century, forty years

after that shotgun blast,
the small farmhouse
leveled by rot, my mother
aged,
my father
dead. Pain

is almost
behind me
and that's a blessing. I

can't remember
the sunsets--
they must have been magnificent.

--Josh Tomblyn

Josh Tomblyn lives and works in Lake Forest, NJ, where he raises orchids and plays the oboe in a 6-person jazz band called The Crazies, Plus Two. He's married to Wonder Woman (he says), has seven children, fourteen cats, and a big mongrel dog named Jack that answers to "Boo." His first chapbook of poems, Is That All There is To A Fried-Egg Sandwich? will be appearing early in 2003 from Look-at-it Press.