On The Wonder Years, Wayne Punches Kevin Again

and calls him a butthead. My mom, walking through
with clean laundry, stops to sigh at the meanness

and what she knows of the show—siblings angry,
their father a grouch. Their neighbor Winnie

and Winnie’s dead brother, her parents dividing
their grief in divorce. My mom only tolerated

zany family trouble: a sulky teen turns into a dog,
a boy without parents befriends a chimp.

These were the movies we watched as kids,
though even Disney plots troubled my sister.

My mom reassured her with statements of fact:
you’ll never be an orphan, we’ll never own a dog.

Revitalization Project: 6.5 Miles of Track, Abandoned by Maine Central Railroad

The city paved                               a footpath

alongside                                        the rails.

At intervals—
              nice benches. At mile 3—
wind chimes.

Views                   of the Kennebec.

Kids with scooters           and bikes.

Every so often
                      interpretive signs—

This is where
we built boats.

                                    Here is where
                                     we made cloth.

Public works
                             keeps the trail in repair.

The state still maintains
                          its companion—
                the track—

so the trains can return
whenever they want.

                                                       Picture it—

Engineer flagging
his striped cap                          in greeting.

Boxcar graffitied neon:
                                     Blue skies ahead!

Girl on roller skates
racing                    the locomotive.


Abbie Kiefer’s work is forthcoming or has appeared in Bodega, Booth, The Cortland Review, december, The Penn Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, and elsewhere. She lives in New Hampshire. Find her online at abbiekieferpoet.com.