When Jack and I went loose
toward the drainage pipe
ending in a cement and grated block
where the marsh grew thick
with cat tails.
I meant to tell you
years removed seeing them now
in cities removed that I'm sorry I left you there
and I'm sorry Jack left too
and I am sorry for every second you
waited while I ran home for a basketball.
I said I would be back in a flash
and I flashed as fast as a blink of an eye could go
when that eyelid was blinking on an eye too young to know.
Remember how the tree tops tickled and licked
at the big sky bowl
that day in September when the trees begin to remember
last years and fast water and melt water and
snows?
It is strange how our birthdays lined up
with so much
pain.
Let's go. Let's run. Let's forget
where we've already been and go there again,
like the two foot dirt ramp was the first time and
the four feet from the porch to the ground
was the first time we felt weightless.
Snow is on my eyelash again.
I'm thinking of
middle grounds and clapped hands and
Jack tearing toward us, paws in a fury for home.
I lace up my good boots and pick out my good knife
and pat my good pack of smokes
in my back pocket. I pick out my good scarf
and think about how you used to smile
when you knew I knew I looked good.
My wallet fits the front and my quarters go
easy into my coin pocket and my socks are just.
I wish we could
smell the same fire.
Miles apart and still burning and waiting
for the leaves to turn.
