it was not so long ago
you were showing me
that burned out stage
by the river where the
hobos had set up camp, with
their **** magazines
and other treasures.
hat day, we were becoming
the intruders as opposed
to the intruded.

we had come there, though,
for a purpose that i know so
well but can't seem to recall.
i know we had both made up
our minds about, at least,
one thing.

i remember agreeing with
everything you said when
you stopped smoking.
i remember saying the
same thing when you
stopped stopping.

i remember you said you
would visit sometime
during the summer.
when summer came,
and you didn't, i stopped  
stopping or something.
and kept smoking.

i was thinking to you
in my head, "now you,
too, are gone." and i
secretly, still, hope
you understand it now
like you did
back then.

understand.


when we left the stage,
one of us said something
about the hobos
understanding
our curiosity.

i'm not sure
either one of us
has gotten
over it.