Indian in the garage

When I was a child
I would press my hardon
against the back of a girl my age
that would sit Indian style
in a moldy garage where the ground was all dirt.


The dirt had a thick layer of mold
on it but we didn't care.

She was the helpless Indian
and I was the bewildered yet
anxious cowboy.

There was no supervision,
just us 7 year olds playing down the alley.


There were old doors stacked

next to each other over in the corner.
There must have been 15
of those things.

I remember wondering if each door had a different
place behind it.

I was too timid to find out.


I was happy rubbing my hardon
on the back of the Indian princess.

I had no idea what I was doing.

I had no idea where to stick the
damn thing but I knew I wanted
to stick it somewhere and bad.

She would smile and she had
little gaps in her teeth and a lazy eye.

You could smell the moist earth.
It was delightfully dank as
the sun would pass right over us
and we never knew it.

We just keep playing
sticking, jabbing and rubbing our way
into the future.


Ray Strickland Jr.

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