You drag up, pants trailing
on the dirt drive like a dead dog or a
punished child, but your smile
still resurrects the roses.
And I try
in my tired way to meet your gaze,
pretend we’re both polished adults.
From the street, we could be parents on a night out
but I’m pretty sure we’re still fourteen.
You’re so cool and I’m too green.
And there’s the same warm wind here
that I felt in your parents’ basement
the night you lifted weights to impress me
and we shared adolescent insecurities
while a raccoon tore through the trash.
Upstairs, your mother prayed.
“I’m sick of being poor,” you say.
“How can we avoid becoming our parents?”
There’s pasta in front of me, beer in front of you.
I have few answers so I just sit still.
Your glass is glowing and your skin is too.
A series of brunettes take note but look away.
Dusk comes quickly as I think about our future.
Your mountains smell the fall before
my city can, and in the parking lot,
I can almost see September looming.
The threat of another year is stifling.
What have we accomplished?
Before I can think, you’re all teeth,
all happy eyes. And the holy sky
turns peach. My mental list
is meaningless in light of this.