Bobby Hunter

Thirteen, three years older than me –

also, Shelley’s older brother.

At her house, it was Bobby who’d play

hockey with me, short sticks, foam ball.

We’d shout when we scored.

He taught me road hockey –

shooting a tennis ball

I’d catch in my baseball glove,

or block with a stick.

Bobby’s other sister, Bonnie,

complained that he’d stretch the crotch

of her jeans when he wore them.

He was first on our street to buy

a 10-speed bike – boy’s style,

lime green from Canadian Tire.

I bought his bike later with babysitting money –

the front brake, fourth gear were all that worked.

At the pool, we all wore Speedos.

I copied Bobby’s blue tie-dye pattern –

he taught me how to do a jackknife,

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

When I started high school, he was in grade 11.

At parties, he’d talk of his summer job

picking tobacco. Waking at sunrise –

hands bloody, arms aching by sunset.

He bought Greb Kodiak boots with his

earnings – yellow leather, lace ups.

The only Grebs in my size had steel toes.

My father warned me, my feet froze that winter.

Once we saw Bobby and a girl

making out on her rec room sofa.

He lifted up, peeled off her,

like he’d done it dozens of times.

His parents bought a grocery store

up north, Bobby moved away in August.

A few years later, Patti came out

to the school smoking area,

there’s a really cute guy inside.

Walking the hall, he called out,

Hey Jo!  Hi Bobby.

Our smiles wide with recognition.

Do you know him? Patti asked.

With his green eyes, broad shoulders,

hair falling over his forehead –

all the girls wanted to be with Bobby.

Not me.