By Peggy Kincaid
The cutest boy I ever saw lived next door.
His little sister was my best friend, but
this isn’t about her. It’s about sneaking
into his room to get the scent
of boy and see his baseball posters
and touch his boy pajamas
when I spent the night with her.
I was only 9, but really, that’s old enough
to know how fine that sandy-haired boy looked
in his tight baseball pants. Lucille Ball
had nothing on me with her Ri-i-i-cky!
That was the cry of my insides:
Oh, Ricky, please notice me.
And when I watched him play the field,
snagging grounders, pulling down line drives,
snapping the ball to third, running over the first baseman,
I melted into my blueberry snow cone, and,
Oh, Ricky, my Bazooka bubblegum froze solid.
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