(2003) (c)
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, offhand about his kisses.
He could have been talking about anything.
Some tired melody
we didn’t recognize
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,
low like on oncoming branch.
The road ahead shimmered with oil slick mirages.
Soon enough, we’d turn back.
