Summer always started with
humidity rolling off the blacktop
in invisible waves we splashed through
to get to the yellow school bus.
Counted checked and loaded
the lanky teen turned on his transistor
and we became the band on the run
towards day camp.

Gathered in whispered awe
around the counselor,
That tinny crackling radio taught
us little yard apes more than John
Jacob and his fellow camp songs
ever did. We learned to rock the boat.
We figured that Billy shouldn’t
have had to be a hero. We heard
the cries of the night Chicago died,
and Rikki didn’t lose the number.

Hot dogs, potato sack races,
swimming, and other camp
activities were endured, an enforced
hiatus between the musical bus ride.

In retrospect, I always learned more
from artists than organized activities.