Cloverleaf Drive
He was
crying
and wouldn’t take dinner,
so,
huddled off and
to the side,
the three of us we stop
and watch kids
two-hand pitching
over gravel,
then walk on.
This old block -
the architecture
is not the same…
- was this it?
where we fumbled
in her V-dub,
laugh-drunk,
unworried
about
upholstered mud
or taxes?
this where we
played
and got late
for dinner?… -
by the teal house,
I hear young numb knuckles
scrape around
for warmth
or wisdom.
It is too dark.
My hip hurts.
I decide we three should turn back.
On the way home,
I thought I saw an old friend
by streetlight.
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