It was pop, in glass bottles, a nickel on return to Dottie’s store on the corner. Part of “snap” and “crackle” when cereal was Kellogg’s. Never tarts—never soda, until she got to college, where they said “soda” in a way that made her feel a little vulgar, though she was, after all, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, not down South where they said “Coke” (for every cola). It was pop to satisfy the craving for a carbonated scoosh. It was Yoo-Hoo like a calling. Like Berra in a pin-striped suit, “me-hee-ing” for the fans of baseball without scandals. It was Squirt. A little towhead, his hands in his pockets, who saved the grapefruit industry in Arizona. It was Hope and Crosby on the “knee-high” tour of legs, disembodied. It was Radar’s favorite drink in Korea. It was Pop, never dad, never father, watching Walter Cronkite. Something about water and some pigs. About a wall in Berlin. It was Pop, when she got back from college, who exploded. You kids think the world owes you a living.
Kathleen Hellen is the author of three full-length poetry collections, including Meet Me at the Bottom, The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin, and Umberto’s Night, which won the poetry prize from Washington Writers’ Publishing House, and two chapbooks.
Image: “Negative Capabilities” from The Dollar Store Estate Sale Collection
Pine Hills Review 