Читать книгу Red Rover Red Rover - Bob Hicok - Страница 12

Prepare for takeoff

We were poor.

My Mr. Potato Head was a potato.

My pony was half a red crayon that drew all of a red pony.

I rode my red crayon pony with my eyes closed.

Mr. Potato Head died slowly of mold.

The potato who replaced him was also from Idaho.

They’d traveled far to let my imagination put words in their lack of mouths.

Later, when I had money, I’d carry a hundred dollars in my underwear.

It seemed a fortune, and the idea of a fortune kept me warm.

When you’re poor, you never stop being poor.

When you’re a potato, you never stop smelling like dirt.

Scared of the dark, I’d hold the aroma of earth to my nose

and think of Mr. Potato Head in the night of the ground.

If he survived, so could I.

If people called the gross knobs that grew out of him eyes,

I was free to believe whatever I wanted.

This is how I learned to fly.