I found you, in a stack of photos:
the 2D you, I can't touch, taste or smell
the first thing that came to mind was sharing a joint with you and spilling the chocolate ice cream cone on your skin-******* shorts
and sneaking into the Woolworth bathroom, and our freaked frenzied scrubbing of fabric with nimble fingers and pink powdered hand soap
and how we couldn't stop laughing
until a woman older than time caught us
before we could consummate
which we did after running the entire
200 yards to my van, wet white shorts in your hand, with me looking over my shoulder for imagined narcs and other freedom snatchers
when we finished, we shared my last Winston, blowing smoke rings in the gathering gloom
your shorts were dry, and our high
had worn off--you didn't kiss me goodbye when I dropped you off
between your pad and mine,
I hit a black mongrel pup wandering on the dark asphalt
I scooped him off the road
with my hands; lifeless, light he was...
I found you, in that stack of ancient
photos--that was the day we conceived a son, one you had shredded in a doctor's office for $300 in illegal tender
I see the messy ice cream, your naked nineteen year old flesh, smoke rings disappearing, the poor mutt dying
though not for lack of trying, I can't see the child you had executed in utero--without trial, judge or jury, save an elusive dream
of freedom
Albuquerque, 1967