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by Ron Lauderbach

I usually spent Friday

nights at John’s house

and since we could not

 spell allow, we wrote

No girls can come in,

over the entrance to

our fort, except Linda

and Susan. We competed

to see which one of us

could support the most

wire coat-hangers on his

new-found erection that

suddenly poked out of our

Roy Rogers pajamas until

we tired of it and went

outside to dig up and

examine the decomposed

perch we buried to fertilize

our watermelon plant.

About the Author

Ron Lauderbach writes poetry to celebrate his long life, for which he is grateful, and to preserve, by sharing, memories and life’s lessons.  After retiring from teaching high school English and journalism, he earned an MFA Creative Writing poetry at SDSU. His work is in many journals as well as Reader’s Digest and Saturday Evening Post.

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