From the Kezar Pond to Saco Bay. Old Orchard Beach to Bailey's Island. The land of my youth The summer camp on Watchic Pond Built by my grandfather. An orphan became a frontline surgeon in WWI France. A retreat from the horrors to Maine With a nurse, my grandmother. A noble woman from a 9th generation Maine family.
Gorham was their refuge They had a family And moved to a huge farmhouse In Westbrook under the shadow of the SD Warren papermill.
Four years later a big-breasted girl working at a drugstore counter asked, "Will you walk me home?" At 12 a walk was a walk. I stuffed my comic in my jean's back pocket. And drained my glass of vanilla soda. I accompanied the girl along the Presumpscot River past the paper mill. No houses. No voices. Only the grinding of the wood saws across the river And the murmur of cars along Route 25. We stood in the woods. She lifted her dress over her head. Her breasts rose as puff pillows. I ran. Ran fast chased by her laughter. Running to my grandmother's house. Upstairs to a bedroom with sea murals I lay in bed. My innocence gone.
In 1975 my grandmother passed away. The camp was sold. The house on Main Street too. Chaney's family moved north. I went south. To New York. A city of too few pines to soothe old ghosts Of an exile from Cumberland County.