Grade Eight

I was in grade eight,
junior high school,
lunch hour walks,
Forest Park Mall past the curling club.

Smoking and sharing
stamped-out cigarette butts,
acting like hoodlums,
teasing the girls.

Pooling our change
for $1.10 french fries and gravy
at the K-Mart cafeteria
that we would douse in
black pepper and ketchup.

Yellowed teeth and hairnets,
these underappreciated ladies
cooked us more meals than our parents.

This is where we were when the space shuttle exploded,
surrounded by bargains and mall cops.

The kids were fired up
for the Judas Priest concert,
running on hormones and our parents’ liquor cabinets.
There was an electricity in the air
that afternoon on our lunch break.

Meanwhile, Judas Priest played the back nine
at the Charleswood golf course.