POETRY: 21st Street

the house we called The Goat Farm

belonged to a man whose wife

died over the course of years

upright in bed in the front room

where she could watch the cars

and wink if she caught you

peeking your head above

the frame of the side window

as you stood on the goat pen roof

your friends huddled across the street

in the minimart parking lot

candybars tucked in the waistbands

of their shorts like pistols and swords

pretending to be unafraid

even though all boys believe

every woman is a witch

and need their deaths to prove us wrong