We were at the liquor store
waiting for it to open every
day. You were so pretty.
I wished I combed my hair.
We had poetry in common.
We liked Frost and Auden
and loved Dylan. We lived
in Bukowski's rawness.
We haunted warm libraries
in winter and read aloud
to each other in spring.
We huddled together in
the nights homeless but
together. We had each
other, so much more than
the rest of the lost world.