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Approximately Summer


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,”

And smile.


You stare.


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.

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