The Good Old Days

A garage door rumbles up slowly. 

He must have seen me coming 

in my navy blue pleated skirt 

and white cotton blouse

walking home from school.

BAM!  his pants drop to the floor,

he waves congenially at me,

my eyes follow his 
down to a dangling 
turtle neck.

I won’t tell my parents about this old man 

on our street--They’d not let me walk

that way again. 

But I know what lurks 
on all streets leading home 

in South Bend, Indiana.

A stranger in the park tried

to coax me to his car,  my
father's friend, a captain,

trapped me in his bathroom 

with frantic french kisses.

That  Peeping Tom (one of many)!
My neighbor caught him

pulling on my bedroom window
while I lay dreaming
just blocks from Notre Dame.

And little Ronnie Gloster hung himself
when he was 10.
His dad knows why.

Tonight an author on the radio

speaks sadly about the good old days

when a child could walk to school

and home again without a care. 

I want to call him on the air.

There were no good old days
in South Bend, Indiana.