by Richard Fein

I was four or maybe five, that part is vague.
But my memory of Rosemarie isn't, not now.
My dad's easy chair was mine at Howdy Doody time,
except when Rosemarie's mom came over for coffee,
then Rosemarie would always get my chair.
Mom whispered to me that Rosemarie
was, or had, a bad kid three, or kid thee.
I didn't understand what she meant.
But the chair was supposed to be mine until dad came home,
especially when Howdy danced on the black-and-white TV screen.
Whenever Rosemarie watched they'd move the chair so close
that she seemed nose to nose with the marionette.
I'd throw spitballs at her from behind.
She'd have to pick them out of her hair.
I'd hide behind the towels and blankets being hung up to dry.
She'd never see me though my feet always stuck out.
I thought she was stupid for a six-year old.
Later mom told me that she could hardly see.
I thought it funny that Rosemarie rhymed with hardly see.
All this was before dialysis was perfected.
The chair was mine after my mom told me that Rosemarie went to heaven.

But this morning in my waking haze,
I saw Rosemarie on my easy chair
watching the TV I had left on all night.
A kiddie show was on,
but such shows are no longer in black and white
or star puppets attached to strings that rise up
to somewhere unseen above the screen.
I hid from her under my blanket,
even though I threw no spitballs,
and mother was no longer around to scold me.

Richard Fein has been published in numerous print and web journals. He also has an interest in digital photography. He has three personal websites where he’s posted sample of his work:

http://hometown.aol.com/bardofbyte/myhomepage/index.html

http://www.pbase.com/bardofbyte

http://expage.com/page/richardspoems