(2005?)
We weren’t at the Catskills that
summer.
We were never at the Catskills.
“I’m good at those,
like rain under an umbrella.”
I think he said that, off-handed,
about his kisses.
He could have been talking about
anything.
Some tired melody that didn’t
belong
in either of our pasts, droned from
the radio.
He flicked a butt out the window.
I picked imaginary gravel from my
toes.
“A beautifully considered Epic,
that’s what I want” I said.
The radio had become a despondent
buzz.
He shielded his eyes from the sun
slung low as an on-coming branch.
The road ahead glimmered mirages of
oil slicks.
Soon enough, we’d turn back.
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