Picaroon Poetry - Issue #13 - September 2018

Marne Wilson
Hanging Out
Sitting on beanbag chairs in your parents’ basement,
we listen to the Shaggy Dog Cha-Cha-Cha
on my record of Disney Dance Tunes.
Your smiling but unobtrusive mother brings us
tall glass bottles of Coke with straws peeking out,
a pan of brownies,
and, if it’s close to suppertime,
a plate of toasted cheese sandwiches.
This is the happiest day of my life,
just hanging out with you.
Too bad this isn’t a real memory.
Instead, it comes from a variety of sources:
Nancy Drew books,
Betty Crocker’s Guide to Easy Home Entertaining,
nights I spied on my big sister
and afternoons spent with Barbie and Ken.
Bits and pieces of these implanted memories
have formed an image much more perfect
than any actual hanging out either of us have ever done.
I could not expect you to live up to this teenage ideal,
forty years out of date
and twenty-five years too young for us,
but it travels through my mind
every time you say the phrase.
20