1964 – 1969. Saturdays.
Mother was home, scrubbing—
a linoleum floor, a toilet, tub, two sinks—
wash clothes folded under her knees for pads,
the same Patsy Cline record on repeat.
Daddy drove us three kids to QFC
where he purchased a bag of cracker jacks,
sometimes black vines,
and cashed a check for five dollars.
He dropped us out in front of the Bay Theater.
Laura and I holding hands while Jimmy
got the tickets. With five dollars
there was a handful of change
and Jimmy got to keep it.
Two hours in a theater full of squirming.
When the film lit the room
I looked down the row to see how many others
were temporarily orphaned.
Then Daddy waiting out front; in a car that smelled
of stale beer and cigars, pop songs playing
in the background.
Nothing about these memories is rancid.
