1942 - January, and I'm still not
a year old -my sister jealous
so she bites my ears and pinches my nose
when no one is looking.
After supper they carry me into
the living room and sit around a huge square
box that talks, and constantly, night after
hushed night, the box talks and talks Hitler.
When I speak my first word, that's the one
I blurt out one snowy day in January; the
whole table goes as silent as church.
I laugh, giggle uproariously, and scream
"Hitler!" once again to my hushed audience
and spatter them with a babyspoonful of
this godawful mashed to splithereens peagoop.
Down below, way down there on the red-
checkered linoleum floor on which my high
chair sits, Queenie, the first of an infinite
number of Queenies (I'm not sure if she's a
springer spaniel, a collie, a golden
retriever, or a german shepherd, but she's
big), yelps her approval and wags her tail.