Bobby Hunter

He was 13, three years older than me

when I moved to Oshawa. He was also

Shelley’s older brother, so when I went over

after school, it was Bobby who’d play

hockey with me in their living room,

short plastic sticks, foam ball –

we’d shout when we scored.

We took our hockey to the streets –

he’d shoot a tennis ball

I’d catch with my baseball glove,

block with my stick.

He was first in our neighborhood

to buy a 10-speed bike – boy’s style,

lime green from Canadian Tire.

I bought his bike a couple of years later

with babysitting money – the front brake

and fourth gear were all that worked.

Bobby’s other sister, Bonnie, complained

that he’d stretch the crotch

of her jeans when he wore them.

We all wore Speedos at the rec pool,

I copied Bobby’s blue tie-dye pattern.

He showed me how to do a jackknife,

swan dive, eventually a one-and-a-half.

When I got to high school, he was sixteen.

At parties he’d talk about his summer

picking tobacco – waking at 6:30 am,

hands bloody, arms aching by sunset,

bought Greb Kodiak boots with his

earnings – yellow leather lace ups.

The only Kodiaks in my size had steel toes

and as my father warned me,

my feet froze that winter.

Once we walked in as Bobby lifted

himself up, peeling off a girl on her

rec room sofa, like he knew what to do.

His parents bought a grocery store

up north, so Bobby had to move.

A few years later, Patti announced

in the school smoking area,

there’s a really cute guy inside.

I followed her down the hall

as he called out, Hey Jo!  Hi Bobby.

Patti asked, Do you know him?  

With his green eyes, broad shoulders,

hair falling over his forehead –

all the girls wanted to be with Bobby,

not me.