I hold a dark blue flower
Up to the sun
The stem pinched lightly
Between thumb and pinky
I see you through the hole created by
My long tan fingers
I say “look,”
The stem darkens where I pinch it.
I let it fall into the river.
The cupid with bushy eyebrows laughs
From his invisible perch
In a nearby willow tree.
Months later, we are sitting in a small diner
That smells like a county fair.
I rip open a ketchup packet with my teeth,
Spit out the plastic,
And lower it onto my crumb-covered plate.
You gaze at me, but I don’t see
Because I thought I glimpsed
Someone I knew
Through the grimy glass window.
We take to the streets,
Main to Liberty, a quick right, then left, then straight,
And we find ourselves
At that place
Where dumpy squirrels scavenge the sidewalks,
Where backpacks follow the stride of their counterparts,
Where a man plays the harmonica and
Scratches on a tin can and
Where it’ll always be approximately summer.
Where I met you.
Legs crossed, no backpack,
But a book. Always a book.
You look up for a moment,
But I don’t. I never do.
Unless you tell me to.
Which you did.
And now I do.