This small talk kills me
when once it was so easy.
I remember when I
was the favorite.

This was before her first car
and sixteenth birthday,
movie dates, weekend sleepovers,
and high school crushes.

This must be how old toys feel,
played out, aged,
traded for the new and bright.


On a sand dune,
we sit shipwrecked,
stranded,and talk carefully
like strangers do about
sea birds pecking for food,
dead jellyfish,
and the innocence of sand castles.

Dark glasses disguise
my quick views of bikinis,
fitness thighs, and smooth dark tans,

mask her sneak peeks
at young muscle, flat stomachs,
and cute boys with fashion haircuts.

She burrows her toes into the sand
to pass the time.
I try to think of jokes
to make her laugh
but no punchlines come.

We share a fancy grilled cheese sandwich,
shy giggles,
and a pink lemonade
before she can no longer hide
the boredom in her eyes.
I know its time to leave.

She reclines her seat back
and sleeps the drive home,
leaving me alone
with miles, empty highways,
and whispers of classic rock
from the radio.