this is the Spring we will all
collectively decide to forget
waste of space March where I
missed the jasmine bloom into
curled fists, wasn’t there when
you dyed your hair
indigo, like the lake I never swam in
then April- the inexorable urge to
weep into the mush
a puddle, a dogwood tree,
a patch of dead grass in the front yard
there were no tacky plastic candles
in your window for me, we sat
silently at opposite ends of a
turquoise couch for a drawn out movie
with an overdone story but
you won’t look at anything else
there’s nothing else to look at
Winter wasn’t so much different
if we’re being honest
I was there with my weaponry shattered
any banal pop or clank- car backfire,
firecracker, served as the starting pistol
and we’d be off racing again
you tugging at my sleeve, you taunting me
keep up, just try to, for once
keep up
