We melted ice cream
in the golden afternoon
burning out at either end
young enough to enjoy it

we wasted away the summer
exhausting ourselves in the sun
easily friends forever
until forever was done.

Hold
the hand
that holds you.

That night
we nearly drowned
in a downpour

and when the sun
seared the morning
we didn't catch our breath.

The rain makes a warm rattling sound
on the window, like a teenage fling
sneaking in after climbing the maple
while your parents slept rooms away

the thunder is far enough away
that it sounds like a muffled sigh
from a half-asleep lover on your shoulder
mixed with the remnants of your dream

lightning, then, which should come first
flashes you out of your memories
and into the moment, your dark room
where you lay awake thinking of love.

In flirtatious quiet
we dodge eye contact
and escape studious looks
in hope that one might fall in love
with the other without even a single word.

There's a well-worn scratch
just below the old brass handle
on the door of forty-six Jopling Avenue

my keys knew it as well as my feet
knew the ancient wicker welcome mat
left by sweet tenants decades before me

take the lucky seven bus to Finch
and there it's hidden behind mid-rises
obscured by traffic and ignored by most

the fading brick harmony
matches the exhausted panel walls
when the door creaks open for you

it was as if it wanted you to be there
the way the little room welcomed you
all the warmth a tired frame could offer

large enough to fit a bed
small enough to hit your head
and perfect for a lonely poet like me

but now my home is packed in boxes
and I'll never again be warmly welcomed
by the door of forty-six Jopling Avenue.

This is why we need poets:
not just to write sense
from the chaos of earth
but to understand ourselves
and what we can do about it
as so few of us truly do.