What's wrong, Charles
The girl with red hair asked as she sat on the bench next to him
And opened her lunch.

It has been a rough week
Charles began.
Linus has a tumor - Sally's been sick.
Lucy has been too busy with Schroeder to set up her psychiatrist stand
When I finally needed it.
I can't understand the grownups.
Or grownup problems.

She took his hand, and they lay down on the grass.
And the little red haired girl just held him.

And they drifted off to sleep.

Charles concentrated on the rhythmic tickle of her breath on the back of his neck
And the years of yearning that had been bottled up
Bubbled and churned and swirled. But-
Chalking it up to heartburn-
He slid beyond the waking world and dreamed.

He felt the innocent brush of her lips on his
And believed he was still dreaming.
The world around him exploded.
His cares, thrown from his mind
Like a half-eaten tuna sandwich,
His Nostrils burned with the scent of her
And dolphin safe fish.
And night rose, and pressed its cold wet nose against the two, and they drew closer,
Huddled together under the safety of Linus' blanket.
And the little red haired girl just held him.

In the morning, Woodstock sang,
and the dog flew his house to World War One Germany
And the little red haired girl was gone-
And Charles finally knew what "Good Grief" was.

Trampas Johnson lives in Minot, North Dakota.
He can be reached by email at trampas@gumballpoetry.com

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