Six foot tall, wide, strong,
my neighbor since I kin remember,
Blonde hair, blue eyes, wide face.
buckin’ hay bales in the summer sun,
me, Petey Waldschmidt:
a short, scrawny kid with black hair,
face mostly nose,
least, that’s what momma said.
Russian Germans we are, farmers forever,
all the way back to Catherine the Great.
Spent the summer in the fields
with Dad and my five brothers,
wearin’ nothing but overhauls.
Doreen Zimmerman and her sisters
workin” right beside us,
her farm and my farm.
That’s how we did it,
everybody helped each other.
She and her sisters sweated through their sleeveless t-shirts,
big sweat blobs under their tits.
Sharp blue skies, steamin’ hot, red skin, tough hands,
Dawn to dusk.
Got in the harvest to feed the world.
We went to the crik after supper,
the Republican River
(what a pompous ass name for a stream that size,
nothin’ compared to the Mighty Mo).
Stars from horizon to horizon,
we laid on our backs and looked at the stars
and talked about everything.
Fall ‘78, football season,
I was the fastest boy in the county,
all league halfback, K-State wanted me after my senior year,
all I did was follow Doreen.
Yup, she played tackle:
we were short of boys and
she was strongest person in the whole school.
I followed her, ran to the space she provided
and the yards piled up.
Opening night at WaKeeney:
Doreen came to the huddle crying
after a holding penalty
‘gainst a twerp who couldn’t fight her off:
“He grabbed my tit, hurt it bad.”
Next time on offense, I chop blocked the bastard
right to the emergency room, out of football,
and didn’t get flagged.
Nobody hurt my Doreen and got away with it.
She showed me later,
a huge blue bruise
beside the biggest nipple
I ever saw:
it was big as half her breast.
I rubbed it and she said it felt better.
Date with the head cheerleader:
homecoming bikini queen, perfectly tanned.
Saturday night drive in,
John Belushi grossed her out,
Didn’t get the toga party.
Asked me if I had a donkey dick like they said.
I showed her.
She looked scared,
barely touched it,
Laid under the stars with Doreen,
Sunday night after church
by the Republican River.
She said, “Petey, I’m so big I shoulda been a man.
Everybody thinks I’m butch,
says I’m a dyke.”
“What the fuck is that?”
I didn’t know.
I told her about the drive in,
she asked to see my dick.
Her daddy died in ‘Nam,
and she had two younger sisters,
so she didn’t know how big
a dick oughta be.
I showed her,
we grew up that night on the riverbank,
and it was glorious.
We were undefeated in football,
‘cause I followed Doreen.
New Year’s Eve we got married,
even though we were juniors in High School,
‘cause that’s what you did back then
when she was pregnant.
I lived at her house,
with her Mom and two sisters,
went to school every day,
worked the farms.
Doreen and I laid out by the River,
counting the stars,
and enjoyin’ the freedom of knowin’
we couldn’t get into any more trouble
than we were already.
We went to the Prom,
me in my size-too-small tux,
she in a gown big enough
for all outdoors.
Our classmates laughed at us:
Mutt and Jeff.
I didn’t give a shit;
our classmates were buttheads anyway.
Doreen bucked hay bales with me
had the baby in July,
and was at right tackle
every game of her senior season;
we were State Champs again..
Summer ‘08, 30 years later:
we hung onto the farm,
had 7 kids: 4 boys and 3 girls,
lots of adventures,
lots of harvests,
good times and hard times,
and a few grandchildren eventually.
And every once in a while,
we take a day off,
go down to the banks
of the Republican River,
and fuck each other
more ways than any porn site
can ever imagine.
My Doreen is still queen of
my heart, my soul,