Monkey Bars

I can assure you, Butch, my childhood does not exist
as it does for you in the fixation of painful memories.
The blows I took, few scars remain, none to cry about,
certainly none to brag about for the most part ironed flat.

The sepia photograph of Aunt Millie no longer trances me as it did,
though her gaze continues spooky, her smile an indelible question.
I wonder where in me she might hiding beyond her fading image.

I can assure you that if she and I were kids in the school yard
on a higher rung of the monkey bars, I would at this stage
of my latter day wisdom, restrain from looking up her bloomers.

This day I declare myself sovereign and independent.
Indeed, in word and for all perpetual purposes
I ordain myself my own ancestor. Don't say I shouldn't.
I already did it.