"skateboards" poems
*With one old roller skate
I'd be out to play
The local boys
Would stay all day
Remove the straps
You’re left with a chassis
Then an old Beano book
It looked real classy
Now to the longest bank
Only one car a day
Place the book on top
We’re on our way
Sitting low legs outstretched
Leaning back the race begins
Round the corner leaning to the side
Riding our skateboards with pride
No designer logo
Or high speed wheels
To come to a stop
We used our heels
Those summer days we were young
Happy children having fun
It cost not a penny to improvise
One old skate with a book the right size
It's quite sad to see
All the waste today
Expensive toys
Just thrown away*
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
Born a boy...
Baseball, music, skateboards...
Puberty comes and goes...
Suicidal thoughts...
The only answer to stop the pain...
Too scared to follow through...
18 and life, my body is a prison...
My body breaks mirrors...
Dysphoria, a word never heard...
Lost, never knowing why...
Alcohol finds me...
The perfect medication...
I laugh, I live...
It hides all the pain...
Year after year...
It's all i know..
There's still something inside...
Something pushing...
Calling, wanting to get out...
It got to be too much...
Then eighteen months ago...
The pain got too much...
My liver was destroyed...
I thought it was the end...
I met a person...
Heard the word transgender...
Some others took me...
Taught me, cared for me...
One day the light came on...
After all these years of tears...
The answer was so simple...
All the pieces fit perfectly...
I was transgender, and never knew...
Now I'm free...
Im so happy for the first time to be me...
I'm transgender..!
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
Took the 17 down nicollet
Passed the City Center
Passing time
Passing men on the streets with an open guitar case
Passed the kids with their skateboards
Passed the guys covered in ink playing fight night on the street
Fifth street
Yellow cord
Brake peddle
Bus stop
Sidewalk
The sharks fight the jets
Romeo goes to Juliet
Old men with canes talk on their cell phones
Nicollet and 4th feels a little heavy tonight
11:47 comes my bus
Down 4th ave
Passing time
Passing the former home of the Twins
Passed the cops with their lights on
Passed some kids in their visors
Red light
Doswell street
Yellow cord
Brake peddle
Bus stop
Sidewalk
Out on the street
Street lamps glow fluorescent
New moon fixed in the stars
Tilted, slightly
The tweakers stay in the shack down the block
They’ve got the rocks in their socks
And they’re sleeping on the carpet
Welcome mat turned over
Shades drawn tight
And an icy cold feeling runs in their veins
And they roll back into a dream
Apartment building
Stairwell
Door 10
Living room.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
kisses and moon beams, i found you in my dream.
skateboards and swim shorts, we are care free.
lifes eternal gift, your momentary illusory particles shift.
heart beats and drumbeats, our hair curls.
dancing the night away, entranced in electromagnetic swirls.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 8:50 AM UTC
tootsie pops, pop rocks, rock candy
sweet tarts, smelly farts, war-heads, sour patch kids
reeses pieces, reeses stix, snickers lickers
fudge pile, chocolate smile, peanut butter bile, sugary style
baby ruths, almond joys, soy bean sauce, creamy steam
ill give u a payday, mayday, hay tastes good with parfai
milkyways stay gay to play games with sunrays
icing splicing with knife dicing
makes cakes, cook steaks, rumcakes
****** sprinkles, rip van winkle, diddily dinkle
gummy worms, germs impregnate firm, permed urns
angel food, carrots, pineapple upsideways
fruits, ***** parachutes, scooters, jello shooters
goobers, corn on the cobbers,
veggie wedgies, pepper leppers, squash boxes,
fry foxes, fleet rocks', carrot tops',
dishes of fishes,
witches brew platypus and fat kush
pushy slushies riding skateboards on gary busy
fussy hussies getting blushy about cussies
cereal made of creoles, bread straight from dreads,
rice is nice with spice, yeast is beast,
last but not least, wheat is a treat,
kiwis, shmiwis, dodos on go phones, starfruits,
bartlejuice, grape drank, sushi stinks.
ill eat anything.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
We sat outside the coffee shop
next to a fire,
watching the sun set behind decrepit buildings.
I lamented over the lack of a roller rink in the area,
reflecting on memories of wobbling around in circles
with dizzying lights and blaring speakers
ejecting Pink, Daft Punk, and Eiffel 65 onto my critical youth.
I felt like a king.
We finished our smoothies and retreated
to an empty hotel parking lot,
where I taught her to skateboard.
One foot over the front bolts,
the back foot over two of the back bolts
but resting over the tail,
kick, push,
it's in the ***** of your feet--
weight distribution.
Tic, tac, scrape, thud--
she falls repeatedly
and gets back up.
I admire her resilience and perpetual smile--
This is what skateboarding is all about.
We roll around the hotel parking lot,
our endpoints being a lone luminescent lamppost
and a telephone pole beleaguered by a plot of shrubbery
that demarcates itself from the pavement.
We circle around the poles for hours,
forming an imaginary oblong track between the two,
our laughs carrying into the cool summer night lullaby
that sang the drowsy small town to sleep.
The fading throb of the wedding reception
at the bottom of the town square by the wharf,
carrying over to us.
The stores closed up hours ago,
silent empty windows reflecting the lonely streetlights
and our ambulance back at us.
We skated on unperturbed into the night hour.
A man walks outside the hotel
to have a cigarette on the sidewalk--
I imagine he is watching us and admiring our glee.
Rolling between this telephone pole and lamppost,
the glare and reflection of the empty silent windows,
the soundtrack singing above our heads,
our laughs, and the tic-tac of skateboards
and groaning of wheels over stubborn pavement
bringing my melancholic reverie to a halt,
recognizing and understanding happiness in the present moment--
This is my roller rink.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
i found them
while i was
digging
through old boxes
covered in dust
hidden
in the shadows
beneath my bed
i'd been searching for LPs
Lost in the Sound of
Separation on vinyl
record
its sentimental value
binding memories of
my favorite band
countless shows
a myriad of friends
it was there that i
found exactly what
it was i wasn't
looking for
who knows
maybe i hid them
because they
reminded me of things
best left forgotten
the blue sticky note
read in purple ink
"my favorite prints
for my favorite person.
thanks for believing
in my work."
in every photograph was a
little bit of you
dead friends
broken homes
dark rooms with
hardly any light
a child looking for love
the beach palms
skateboards and surfboards
in every photograph was a
little bit of you
shot in black
and white
refined in their
aesthetic but
only one photo actually
had you in it
three windows
light filtering through
closed blinds
an air vent in the bottom
right-hand corner
you stand in the center
and it is evident that
you are shirtless as you
look over your shoulder
at the camera suspended
in the room
what thoughts crossed your
mind when the shutter
shuddered shut
in every photograph was a
little bit of you
and if we’re being honest
there was a little of
me too
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Paths of cratered concrete, cracked
By morning frost and midnight freeze,
Wimpy weeds grow through the fissures.
Children fall and skin their knees.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Canvas for a budding Rembrandt,
Using colored chalk as paint,
Drawing flow’rs, and stick-man family,
Curbing not her young restraint.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Adults dare not let loose the leash,
As they exercise their dogs, and ease their own stress,
Must carry bags and tiny shovels,
To clear the concrete of the mess.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Scooters, skateboards, wagons, bikes,
Off the path, then on again
While yielding the right-of-way
To lovers walking hand in hand.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Collecting children at the corner,
A guard, with yellow vest and sign,
Moses parts the sea of traffic,
Cautiously keeps kids in line.
Through front yards, across drive-ways,
Toward bus stops, stores and schools,
Gathering mown grass, autumn leaves, and winter snow.
There are poems in small town sidewalks,
Imagination on the go.
Phil Lindsey 1/11/17
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
impulse boys
shooting themselves out of skateboards
into the hearts of lovely girls
sitting on the picnic tables
pretending not to be seen
lonely girls
what more is there to say
about these lonely girls, willing
their way through to picnic tables
pretending not to look
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 9:55 AM UTC
walking as the sun sets spiderwebs cross my path and shine like fibers of time a moth hovers in front of me suspended in the air I walk slowly around it watching its wings flutter in place a man skateboards down the hill smoke trailing behind him like a train I stare the world is amber as the sun sinks in the sky diving into the ocean I walk and the sound of electric symbols like gun shots bring me back to reality an appropriate song for my mood balancing on the curb I notice that the harvest men have come out en mas their bodies the color of the dead grass that grows all around as they wander on their long spindly legs I continue on my sides aching my mind wandering along with my feet I guess I just needed to be out for a bit to have nothing to do no purpose or reason just to wander timeless
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
It was the mouths fault
smacking together, flicking sticky
reality onto her collarbone.
Squishing perfectly whole beginnings into soggy afterthoughts
It could have left them alone, yet
silence is failure, and success was all it could talk about
Never reach for a door closing if you
can't handle the pain.
Pinched knuckles inflamed with blame,
stiffly folding in quiet fury
Nails are diva's
rallying strikes when ignored, scratching at patience
always needing attention
All active in the community: grabbing and giving, holding and pushing,
killing and mending, building and breaking.
Thing is, fingerprints only matter in crimes
It's losing pressure. Deflating, collapsing.
Rubbing is hopeless, exams are lazy, blinking is irritating. No focus
Look at her-
Can't.
Look her in the eyes-
Won't
No focus, no focus, ......no .....fo....
*{bare shoulders
fingers intertwined
soft...lips..
broken skateboards
midnight bench talk
sun burns
you're it
you're it
you're}*
Not.
Reading makes it worse, table charts said it would continue deteriorating. Always blurred, always squinting.
So much depending, so much waiting. so much, so much, ......so....muc
*{desire
promises
hope
backseat lounging
hours of music
October coffee
I'm ready
I'm ready
I'm}*
Not.
Never. Stop.
Don't quit, don't go easy.
Committed- following through, following these vines. These promises
Don't underestimate- prove it.
Every day, every day, every.single.day.
*but.
please.
I am,
hurting
I trust
and
I'm failed
I won't let you down
but.
Don't take me for granted
I am strong, I am strong, I am strong
but.
I have moments*
Mouth's lie, hand's reach, eye's fade, heart's ache.
Be more than the weakness
I am only human
but.
I want more
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 11:52 PM UTC
Summer is
bikes and rollerblades
and go-carts and skateboards,
kites and frisbees
and ***** and gloves,
rainbows and suncatchers
and white fluffy clouds,
blue skies and green fields
and sunshine and flowers,
bare feet and sandy toes
and waves on the shore,
tan lines and sunburns
and goofy tourists,
yellow and orange
and summer rain,
butterflies and gardens
and fresh vegetables,
smiles and funny faces
and silly conversations,
smirks and giggles
and big belly laughs,
playing outside until the streetlights come on
and picking flowers for the dinner table,
building sandcastles just to knock them down
and shelling so many peas your finger go numb,
staring at a sky so blue it hurts your eyes
and running barefoot through the cool grass
and laughing so hard you can't even breathe.
Summer is.
Oct 3, 2009
Oct 3, 2009 at 3:29 PM UTC
13 years ago
that Magnolia tree hovered over my yard.
it cast such a shadow
that everything underneath was always so cool.
the flowers were so beautiful;
the purest white to the palest pink.
when the sun was at a certain angle
the tree looked magical.
5 years ago the tree split in half.
back then
the grass was so much greener.
i don't mean the metaphor
the feeling of thin lucious grass running through my toes
always amazed me.
the grass is dead now.
we used to love the rain.
we would run up
and play in the middle of the street.
until the thunder cracked
and we'd race back home,
laughing the whole way.
I'm terrified of storms now.
you used to be able to hear kids playing.
you could drive through any neighborhood at any time of day during the spring and summer.
there would be kids outside.
playing baseball, rundown, release, soccer-
riding bikes, scooters, skateboards, go karts-
jumping on pogo sticks, trampolines, and over ropes.
even at night
we would go out
trying to catch lightening bugs.
we're inside on our phones now.
the trees going to school.
God were they something.
they lined the road,
every tree was the exact same
but something about there being so many in one place
could take your breath away.
2 years ago the road and trees were destroyed
I wish things never changed
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
we'd wake up and play with magic
like any other game of pretend
bath towel tied into a cape
we'd approach an empty plastic top hat
wand in hand
we were tapping into an ancient power
that we barely even knew
we've played a superhero, Sub-zero
and now, a miracle worker
there was nothing we couldn't do
we'd climb trees to the summit branches
as high as we'd dare to go
we'd lower the hoop and dunk with ease
alley-oops, 360s
sometimes in slow-mo
there was nothing but room
to grow and explore
frontiers of the imagination
seized on roller blades with plastic swords
we'd tie skateboards to the back of bicycles
and Jamaican bobsled down the street
we were free ninjas in the 90s
off to adventures no one sees
we'd front roll down hills like hedgehogs
we'd scrape knees
we'd footrace to the stop sign and back
to pretend we're going faster
we'd kick clouds of dust in our tracks
we'd steal bricks from the neighbor's garden
and throw them into lakes to see the splash
we'd throw pebbles to see how high they'd go
or paper planes from the top of the staircases
one time, we jumped off:
it was a dare
we did it though
we unscrewed the air cap from the tires
of our enemies' parked cars
we clapped back with super soakers
the block was truly ours
we'd play until the streetlights came on
with more discoveries left unseen
and in the shadows while sleeping
we'd play catch with our dreams
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 10:51 PM UTC
1. Led Zeppelin
two.Football
3.sex
four. Kings of Leon
5.intimacy
six. Trust
7. skateboards
eight. Hazel Eyes
9. Subway
9.the sandwich shop
Ten. Love
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
In secret
Words prepare dialogue transporting emotions like pilots
With no mercy words turn around and get messy
Placing Vaseline on dry throats speaking levy
Lips on skateboards sniffing the ground for reality’s ride
Electrifying plots against blurry words with
no physical basic thoughts thinking dialogue cravings
Untidy tiding plots buried in baritones hurried to hire imaginary thoughts
With no mercy things get messy
Stainless inks get messy
Poetry comes in speed bumps
Never the less poetry comes in speeds
Bumping speed bumps
Bump all slumps
Bluffing word bumps
Bump all stunts
Puff them hard till words provoke gumboot sounds
Bump all ink pumps and thirsty thumbs
Speed bump conclusions jumping resolutions around
words spoken in gibberish gigabytes per seconds smelling leverage
Amplifying televised revolution on repetition far from average
Paralyze those walking eyes
Bumping rhythms
Dusty broken chests serving overcrowded greeting lines
On solo mode
Flirtalicious solo chaotic modes
Bumb connections around chairs warmed up by bums
Speaking the same womb and rhythms
Brothers and sisters chained up in pairs and bums
enslaved by messy word poetry speed-bumbs
Words get messy with no mercy on lip bumps
Those messy words camp behind bushy brains
Rail track through lips with no vibrating mercy veins
Affiliate with true bones
Crossbones carrying history's forgotten side bums
Instrumental bones
Stinking hip hop bums speed flossing word stunts
Words dig up chaos with no mercy
Armed with no rounds
Pounds stolen before two rounds
Sheriffs secretly scared of their own uniform sounds
Shortlisted words saving society's bums
Words are just messy and profound
a.s.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
Oceans of swaying arms
Holding skateboards or coffee
Remember, passerby’s eyes
Are not the same as horizons.
I move
Like I swim
That is to say
I know how to still my body
Long enough to float.
Gospel screaming to me
Through broken headphones,
Foghorn booms
“I’ll die when I’m mother ******* ready”
“I’ll die when I’m mother ******* ready”
Remember, upturned chin,
Never to stop.
When you find
Sunken feathers that cling to pavement
In unforgiving embrace,
You will build an alter,
And continue
To move
With two feet
And no grace
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
Beautiful things
come to mind
when i think of you.
Lovely colors in faded hues,
smiles, grass, skateboards,
sunlight, bike rides, sneakers,
memories of times
that have never happened.
You have caused me
fantasy beyond the extent
of my former imagination,
it is a mystery
shrouded by
the possible and the plausible.
How will we end?
Are you just my friend?
I don't know yet.
I'm not sure , but
I think i might...
I think i might...
... I think i may be capable
of loving you.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
I want to be skinny and sexless,
to lay around in sleeping bags under the stars
with friends and maybe lovers
to feel the comfort of skin
and the ear tickling of dreamy nonsense words
of plans and ambitions and dreams and loves.
I want to be skinny and sexless,
to waste my youth- idle- with thoughts that lead
nowhere but to other young holding hands-
fingers, long hair, short hair, scissors.
I want to be skinny and sexless,
with the romanticized and stigmatized idea of
children gone wild-
skateboards and swimming pools and
hot red blood and money burning holes
not in pockets but in hands
and broken bottles and brown paper bags.
I want to be skinny and sexless,
to write poetry and half romantic letters
that swear with my whole heart
"I hope I die before I hit thirty."
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
Have you heard of the word
That sounds like the squeak
One would make from your beak
If you had one? It’s fleek!
If you say, “She’s on fleek,”
With eyebrow perfection
She needs no correction
In shape and in peak
Now anything’s on fleek
That’s on point and ideal
From skateboards to hash browns
In taste, look or feel
It’s about 2 years old
That’s antique in webspeak
And now that you know it,
You’re part of the clique
It sounds like a combo
Of flawless and sleek
Neither Latin nor Greek
Still not sure if it’s chic
We used to say hot,
Or da bomb, or pristine.
If on fleek is passe’,
Just say, “yaasss, Queen!”
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 6:29 PM UTC
her world was shattered long before she had the slightest chance to experience the harshness of it.
im pretty sure there are people who get better, who make it through.
and although some people recover parents divorcing and loneliness and being practically raised by themselves, some others turn into drugs and become cheaters and they should have the concern of someone. i mean, who pays attention to these forgotten souls? who will help them become who they were born to be and not a weak copy of their flawed parents?
i'm not bluffing, people do get better and i know at the moment it may seem as the hardest thing you'll ever experience.
baby i know you think you need those boys but you don't, you need the beach and fresh air, and a hot bath when things seem to heavy for your fragile shoulders to handle, you'll need friends who get you ice-cream after rough break-ups, skateboards and probably a shot or two, and fresh air when the air gets so thick your lungs finally begin to charge all those empty cigarette boxes hidden under your bed.
and you will get better, you will overcome it and you'll thank god or better yet you will thank yourself for holding onto to that ray of sunshine, for staying away from the shadows and the chaos, for keeping those dark thoughts that used to haunt you at night in a corner of your mind you no longer have the need to visit.
remember, i love you
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
Acquainted with Mark,
I walk to the bookshop;
not the one with the *****
instead the neon green nightmare
where there’s nothing good to read.
It’s not so much that I’m searching
for anything in particular, but the sun
has gone down and there’s a need in me
to get out of the house and walk around
someplace that feels like someplace.
Walking past the skateboards,
(Why the **** are there skateboards here?)
I start looking for Mark.
“He doesn’t live here” they say, “He never has.”
No, he doesn’t, I gather.
The King does though,
and if I wanted to fall in love
with a vampire there, I certainly could.
But, Mark is nowhere to be found.
The Laureate of Drunkards has a room
there, but he hasn’t moved in and the
staff cannot remember the last time they
saw him.
Dr. Lovecraft and Chitulu have been known to set
up a lemonade stand now and again, but they never
stick around very long, their product is too sour
for palettes around these parts.
Regardless of this, my search continues.
Mark is not here today, but Robert Parker
has rented some space and is rooming with
Ray Chandler, down the hall from Larry Block,
sometimes they cook up some pasta and mussels
in white wine, with good bread.
Sometimes they pan fry steaks, and make home fries
drinking rye until it’s all medium rare.
It’s mysterious, how Mark became an afterthought
and we all hope he hasn’t been murdered, kidnapped,
or met with some other form of foul play.
It’s poetic really,
how Mark will come around now and again
he’s not lost or forgotten,
he’ll be waiting for me when I get home.
We’ll sit in the dark, under the lamp,
together well read his poem titled: “Poem”
and I’ll tell him that he’s better at this noir stuff
than all those other hacks.
But, for now, Mark remains…Stranded.
***
-JBClaywell
©2016 P&ZPublications
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
The flavor of my youth
was skateboards and punk rock
heavy metal and mischief
walking through Cary town
with pockets full of change
and crushed singles
sodas in hand
and skateboards under the other arm
in the gated community we lived in
we would find the houses
where we knew the owners were away on vacation
and we took to the stairs on four wheels
to glide through the air like arrows shot from some towering bow
made of concrete and asphalt
and we went to shows in the city
dressed in the armor of wristbands, ripped jeans, and faded band shirts
drunk on our parents’ beer and skunk ****
drunk on the promise of a night open to any footfall we chose
and we jumped up and down in mosh pits
just trying to feel anything real
anything which tasted like living
we stalked from house to house cloaked in the witching hour
and pillaged our knick knacks from the garages of neighbors we never knew
padded fingertips pressing against doorbells
1...2...3…
now run
we didn’t have time for school
or the teachers trying to bring us down
but we always had time to trek through the woods with a bowl
smoking **** until we got to the mall
where we ******* around until mall security chased us out
we did not always make the greatest decisions
but I am **** glad I made them
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
We were 6 years old, we were innocent, we we're playing. Just playing, in the most innocent sense of the word. With dolls, or blocks, or trucks, or dirt. I don't remember. We we're playing and then we weren't. We were playing and then the darkness came, and it took away our blocks. It took away our safety net of protection and threw us down the slide of demons.
Your demons. His demons.
We were 7 years old, we were innocent, we we're singing. Just singing, in the most innocent sense of the word. Songs, or lullabys, or comercials, or imporved words. I don't remember. We we're singing, and then we weren't. The darkness struck again, and this time hit us hard with liquor filth and stench.
Your stink, his drink.
We were 8 years old, we were still innocent, we were riding. Just riding, in the most innocent sense of the word. Bikes, or scooters, or rollerblades, or skateboards. I don't remember. We we're riding, and then we weren't. The darkness grabbed our wheels and lurched us onto the pavement 'till our skin ran red and he told us we were *****
His fault, our blood.
We were 9 years old, we still had bits of innocense, we were running. Just running, but not so innocent. On feet, we ran. I remember. We ran towards the sunset, quickly, but not quick enough. The darkness caught up to us, panting. Struck through us with quivering blades, and took away every drop of innocense left.
His addiction, our innocense.
We were 10 years old, we no longer had any innocense, we got away. A big man in blue took the crying darkness away, and stored him in a box made of cement and metal. Darkness said he'd see us when we were 18, thinking we loved him. Loved him through his addiction, because deep down there was light? And we were good girls, weren't we? We could see the light in him, right?
No light, Only darkness.
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 3:57 PM UTC
We spent hours on our skateboards
Hot days and cold nights
Skinned knees bleed slightly; they drip lightly on the same asphalt
that we glide over all afternoon
Rubber wheels smack cracks in the sidewalk
Wood scrapes concrete as you launch into the
air
if only for a moment
Everyone comes down
Rosy from the sunshine
T-Shirt stuck slightly to my sweating back
I wheeled myself under the installed cedars,
over littered leaves,
around suburban corners
A man in an orange vest held up his arms, beckoning mothers in their
vans to stop for me while I skated by but
I didn’t thank him
I felt regret
In your room we fumbled awkwardly in the half-light
Sunshine warmed us in slats through your dusty blinds
Partially filled cups sat atop your dresser, full of water and red pop
There was a buffalo springfield poster on your wall and I thought you
were devastatingly cool
We’re sixteen and we’re not in love but we love what we’re doing
I still remember your skin, it was olive dark and bruised all over,
when I ran my fingers down your back white lines remained for a
fleeting moment
Short shorts and a long shirt, these memories are vivid
I wonder where you are now – an actress I hear, which is funny
because I never really thought you were any good
I wonder if you still find the minutes to take your old skateboard,
covered in dust and the film of time, out of whatever buried corner it
inhabits
Back in your bedroom, my hand lingers next to yours as we sit close on your bed
While you contemplate my lips, I contemplate yours
I’m a little late for dinner
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC