Summer of Water Balloons II

That summer, we heaved water balloons at
each other. I was wearing undershirts, though
too hefty for them, I barely knew myself.

One of us was crouching over a facet,
another was knotting long ones and plump ones,
plump as a baby's belly. Then we'd lob

each other gleefully and with vengeance.
From high embankments, we'd lob innocent
shoppers, their sole sin, wheeling carts to cars.

That week, I was the only girl not asked
to Louise's sleepover. But then as
you'd have it, the boys needed my help.

I was to knock on the door - and they'd blast
her hall with scads of dripping balloons.
Later, she would upbraid me, saying,

"How dare you - you stained my mother's carpet."
 By then, my hurt had taken another turn.
Same night, I went bike riding with the boys.

My steed, an ancient racer, once grime and
webs in the dank cellar, now brought to life.
At last, I could escape.

We raced past the park, past the stone mouthed panthers
guarding the hollow, panthers roaring with
vengeance and glee. The sky was oiled an
olive black; moon slivered in its silver shell.

A sharp wind swept across my face and yes,
there was this one lanky Irish kid,
head of the pack, who'd been adopted by
a childless Jewish woman, whom I knew.

At times, he'd ride without holding the bars,
like treading water, or daring fate. Then
surprisingly, he rode to the place where
I was. We chatted - my heart was open.

Home, mom scolded me, "Out so late, four kids
still up, what were you thinking?" Like four ducklings,
I gathered them into the tub, scrubbed them down,
wrapped them in towels, smoothed their feathers.

Then, I opened the drawer to my pink
diary with its brass lock - I listed
the names of all the boys on the ride, and
wrote a few lines about the lanky Irish kid.