Lindsay draws a portrait of a child for me.
We used to be seven years old together,
sitting with crossed legs on colorful carpets.
Getting rough with you in gym class, in hopes you’ll understand.
You still had running in your legs,
and I still had jokes to tell you.
With my playground pistol lodged in my belt line,
employing techniques of television gunmen,
We left the park in half-efforts of single file.
We were given thirty minutes to rest upon our nylon cots.
Bubbling maniacs;
shooting toothy grins and nap time whispers in the dark.
Making you laugh was a lunchtime custom.
Enjoying milk and crackers for comedic fuel and concentration.
You never forced me into being silly when observing a wave of shyness.
We laughed at math in class together,
sharing hopes of new maturity in possible homework assignments.
Me next to you; all smiles in line for the water fountain, and
My stomach turns colors with the thought of coming over after school.
Our fathers were planets with tools of big weathered hands.
The godlike grips on steering wheels,
navigating trips to soccer practice,
to school,
your big house.
Your dad's blue station-wagon has seats that face the rearview window.
Sharing daydreams, we watch the driven road behind us.
I was nine years old,
planting kisses on your neck upon backtracking oceans.
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