brad's bog house

we all used to go there on weekends. slothing throught the peaches and the pears and the lost math assignments. a great old delapitated shithole, tin roof rusted. rooms with nothing. rooms wth everything. beer and bottles and broken fishing line wrapped around the trees. the view, laden with sphagnum moss and stupid pet tricks. all around, the secrecy and solitude, the parting of the ways, the loosening of the leash. the introduction to our wild years filled with nasty wishes that never came true. folded and molded, things lay on tables with broken legs and soft corners that needed no sanding. a true dixie flap- jack, barnwood juke jive joint in the woods of western new york. a rusted row boat and one oar. we took it out and brought it back. silver fm radio hits and blind loose leaf kits. brooksie and jim bob and kate and carp. it wasn't there for long or was it there at all. doesn't matter much. it was then and then was when it was and that is all it could have been.