Growing up in Somerville

20 years ago I was 7 and Jim was 6. We’d call eachother up: Wanna come over and play? 9 out of 10 times we spend the day—interested and happy—either building something, riding bikes or swinging from the rope in my backyard on Davenport Street. Like the day I’m writing about.

From a high—seated-rope that hung knotted from a beast whose roots gathered enough earth to register a zipcode, or so we believed, we’d swing that limb shook—enough to make that rope crack sounds of mercy from length against one of our weights. One day a kid came over from behind a neighboring garage.



20

20 years ago Jim and I
were spending our days swinging
from a Davenport St. maple,

off a knotted seat & after a while
he’d insist on a pair of saw-horses
standing, 2x4s and ply-wood to

highten the ride in some ville,
any ville. And, in short, I was afraid.
But he swung in laughter-hanging-

suspended and made his way back steady
safe. My turn felt like a burn; but look
a neighbor came introducing

and we followed him off & watched
him pluck his neighbor’s sunflowers like
cornstalks from his neighbor. Just for fun.

His mother leaned a window frame
what the hell! We went back to the rope
as the neighbor kid skulked off.