John J

His soul curdled standing milk childhood's right gone wrong. Plum-blue skin brown dusted eyes black shining. (His momma didn't want him.) The round head slick silk Turn-around, fall-down curls. Old ladies smelling of flour and talcum powder, Cashmere Bouquet, said “This child is pretty enough to be a girl.” (But his momma didn't want him.) John J. grinned a “How can you resist me?” and danced to conjure lightning from a morning's summer sky. Gave the teacher an apple kiss. (But his momma didn't want him.) His nerves stretched two thousand miles found a flinging singing lady, breasting a bar calling straights on the dice, gin over ice, and the 30's version of everybody in the pool. (She didn't want him.)