“one of the first things a bedouin does, when he comes to a new desert place, is to light a little fire to make a center…that structures and diminishes the vastness…and reduces the desert.”
–david k. shipler
it was the 90s era of swing
dancing and cigars
and none of us liked cigars,
but we loved each other.
beneath the steel toed city
of brotherly love,
we huddled by the train tracks,
exhaling like locomotives.
we didn’t smoke,
so every time we smoked,
we talked about smoking.
like swimming in the ocean
while trying to get dry,
instead of asking
where we were headed
what we were leaving
whether we were drivers
or passengers,
we puffed smoke signals
we couldn’t read,
then played a game:
memorize all the stops
on this line.
so I jumped down
to the tracks,
stepping from one
wooden plank
to the next.
they’re called sleepers,
supposed to dampen the sound
of arrivals and departures.
I placed a quarter
on one of the rails,
to check for vibrations
in the distance.
*
we could have kissed anywhere,
but ran up the slide
to sit, impossibly close
on the playground green platform.
the sun’s eyelids
drooping,
the park hills,
monotone.
the only people
followed dogs
and we had nothing
to do that had to be.
I think about that now,
standing with you
in front of the calendar
we hung in the kitchen,
the white boxes
getting filled.
do you?
when our kids lose puzzle pieces,
when we try to calculate screen time,
and when our daughter tries on your heels
to wobble around the room?
when our empty clothes
hang on the drying rack?
when you have blood drawn,
or at the end of scrabble,
when there’s no room for new words,
we can hope for an “s,”
make plurals.
myvocabularydidthistome.com 