I was barelegged with you in a field this morning.
You couldn't have been a day past five.
It was I who helped you navigate the long grass,
the dips in the soft, unseen turf,
you who found the ripe blackberries,
spread across your face like war paint.
Or was it your high school?
You walked off the grounds for the last time,
a sheet of paper pressed between leather
under your arm as your books always were,
I wore a simple floral top and black slacks,
a proud smile that just wouldn't come off.
I can’t recall. But no matter.
It's 4 o'clock , another sunny Monday,
that day after Thursday,
when that kind young man
who looks so much like you
always brings warm apple pie
just the way I like it.
He should smile more often.