I had the water hose in the sandbox
drowning the enemy army men,
turning their battlefield into a quagmire,
even my own bazooka guys were sinking
out of sight so I ran over to the faucet
under the wood worktable propped against
the back of our garage to turn it off.
And there was Vicky Veeden, the girl
next door who was in 3rd grade but often
stayed home and hung out with me; she’d
brought her stepdad’s old navy blanket
to drape over the table for our play house.
“Just home from the war I see,” she said.
“Let me hose you down.”

The cool water ran muddy and then clear;
it shot through me like a bolt when she put
the hose into the front of my shorts to get
the sand out. “Come into our house to let
me check your wounds,” she said. In the dank
gloom she looked at every bit of me for
imaginary injuries: a broken leg to be set,
a head cut to be bandaged, a hurt in my
middle part that she had to examine.

Then our play changed like a dream.
I held back from Vickie’s embrace
when she tried to show me what mommies
and daddies did at night. Still, I wanted
to know about our underneath parts
so I stayed for all of the show and tell.
I knew I should be learning something
important but I had no idea what.

When my mother called me in
for dinner she asked me
which side had won the war