My folks were young, they were kids with a kid, they needed a break sometimes and they'd say—
tonight you're staying with Ollie, okay?—
and we'd get in the car and drive way far away—
not like taking the dog for a ride in the country, exactly—
leaving it there and driving away—
pretty sure you can’t do that with children—
or more people would—
but anyway—
whenever my folks wanted time to themselves, they would say, you're going to Ollie's—
and we’d drive and we'd drive ’til the houses were bigger and the yards were wider—
farther apart and farther away—
gettin’ close, gettin' close, my folks would say, and we drove by cows and silos and barns 'til we got to the place where Ollie stood—
my dad would say, big fella ain't he, like no one had ever said it before—
and my mom would say, now you be good, we'll be back in the morning—
my dad would throw me his jacket and say, here, take this, in case it gets cold—
sometimes it did and I put on the jacket, or sometimes I rolled it up for a pillow—
he had bags in his arms with big loaves of bread—
tall as the sky, Jolly Ollie they called him—
it was sort of like taking the dog for a ride—
but some things are okay long as nobody knows—
his apron was white and he wore a bowtie—
and I slept curled up between his black boots—
he was all that was left when the Food Giant closed.