where i hid with you from the rain under a pine tree and the others, they all danced around in the sun’s last light and i swear i could read that whole story in the needles of the tree up above

when we slow danced in the headlights of a parked car down the road

how the air hung lazy around yellow street lights and crumbling redbrick buildings in summer nighttime sky, with the fog rolling in from rain two hours gone

baseball games on radio

fireflies and neon pizza signs

what the shadows looked like back around your grandma’s house, running from the old folks and the cars in the street settled down to a low hum and alls was left was whispers and your breath

what your dad said, that the millsmoke couldn’t be bad because it meant people were working and soon they’d file out of the plant like blood spilling when the shifts change

bikes trace slow circles

scratching pebbles in the cement

how your mom would be standing under a white porch light, hollering down the block and across avenues and around corners for you to come home

when your hand slid into mine without a word

where we sat on the table top of a splintered red park bench in July moonlight and i was trembling after the laughter and nothing was left except you and everything else we never said

i saw you across a crowded room a few weeks ago

you look rich now, guess you drive a big car

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