Driving by My Childhood Home
Erma Lane, like Erma Bombeck
I still find myself saying
as if anyone remembers her
or my mother who sat barefoot
on the back deck, Salem Menthol
in one hand, a dog-eared copy
of Fear of Flying in the other.
Brown ranch house of the neighbor
who said she went to college
to earn her MRS degree. Yard where
our Blizzard of ’76 snowwoman
wielded an ERA NOW! sign.
Front stoop where my father
described his new girlfriend
to my mother: She’s a lot
like you but with bigger boobs.
The other sign, bright yellow
with black letters: DEAD END.
by Erin Murphy
Editor’s Note: Irony and nostalgia come together in this vivid poem where memory is both sharp and realistic.
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