Summer Friend
by Ann E. Diviney

I didn't hear from you,
summer friend, that
August back in '67.

I wrote you. You didn't answer.
Maybe you knew more
about the world than I.

You returned to the city,
I , to the country, where
I trained two orphaned chicks.

I hypnotized the chickens
at the York Fair that
September. Were you there?

I remember your pigtails
(five, I'd never seen that),
your smile, your peals
of laughter as we swam,
rode horses, drank tomato
juice at Camp Cann-Edi-On.

I didn't know your brother
had been shot. But I heard
about the officer they killed.
I saw the footage of the tanks
as they rolled into York.

When the angry young man
shot the five officers in Dallas,
know what I thought of?

You, me, black, white,
floating candles down
the Conewago, singing

"Peace, I ask of thee, oh, river"

Just before we said goodbye.

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