you remember when we’d go off to Carey’s?
grab a few dogs, some fries, a few shakes,
eschew the napkins and condiments,
and take our sack of malnourishment
and walk up the hill by the square?
we’d toss a quilt (stiched, still unworn)
on the dew and the grass,
invite the ants to join us because
we spent so much time staring
at the ants in the square, below.
you were always a looker, y’know
ramones t-shirt, faded, speckled jeans
no makeup, white freckles, and
those velvety smooth lips you liked to
press against my cheek.
we’d sit and talk about school,
hands wrapped around each other,
two pillbugs trying to find room for
tiny, inexperienced digits.
we were awkward,
we always were.
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