INNOCENCE photo: "Near Panoche" by Tim Goodman
In 1963 on the west side of Omaha
an oil drum painted like a flag stood
guard at the edge of our neighborhood--
down where 98th met Happy Avenue
and the city segued into a fertile plain.
Hanging from it was a golden spigot
and every afternoon, hordes of us, raised
on Spock and Suess, would drink until
satiated, then return to our unfenced yards
that ran together like the blood of aliens
in a democratic land--play Kick the Can,
Slinky, Frisbee...John F. Kennedy was just
finishing his term, and by the time we got it,
those other doctors would have a cure for
cancer. Naturally, it didn't work that way--
the dark surfaced as the seasons changed,
and the girl next door grew hinged to the
entire world, not just the cherry visions of
transitory wealth. But thinking back, I can't
help but wonder if that lack of knowledge
was a prerequisite for wisdom, knowing now
that the bottomless tank was not bottomless
at all, but akin to the long drive you take
when you first receive your license--
mile after mile of statuesque trees
lining the highway, leading you to believe
that in this car, at least, heaven exists...
that by the time you get to wherever it is
you're going, you'll be old enough to manage,
old enough to live minus lightning...old
enough to blur the distinctions between a
dark complicated world, and the one you love.
