That summer in Missouri
a barn cat had kittens.
We poured milk in saucers.
Diarrhea. Vet called us city kids,
said you can’t give milk to barn cats.

That summer in Missouri
busy owls left pellets of fur, tiny bones
each morning by the outhouse
saying this could happen
to who, to you.

That summer in Missouri
cows poked heads in the open window
where we lay sweaty on sheets.
They bellowed: Sun! Up!
and drooled on our thighs.
Called us city kids, too.

That summer in Missouri
we skinny-dipped in the muddy Meramec,
washed ourselves under the pump
taking turns with the handle
and then saw a fuzzy screen, Neil Armstrong
bouncing on the moon,
almost as far away.

That summer in Missouri
a neighbor invited us to chapel.
And by God, he advised, Pick those tomatoes!
Next day we listened mid sermon
as a hailstorm clobbered the roof
of our flower-power microbus
packed with tomatoes
safely bound for market.
Dumb luck? Providence? In appreciation
we joined that little congregation
and nobody called us city kids.


© by Joe Cottonwood.
Used here with the author’s permission.