after summer rain, pulpy

tears on wet cement.

 

Luca used to write love notes

on birch scraps for witchy paramours.

 

Now, they’re a doctor

with a wife and kids in Ann Arbor,

a large wooden desk stacked

with finger paints and books.

 

I fondle the bark for old time’s sake—

it’s covered in kiwi-seed ants, which race

for my sunburned skin.

 

I blow at them then flick at them then lick them from my thumb.

 

I’ve got laundry slung over my shoulder

in a monstrous Target bag.

 

Am I cancelled?

 

I can’t keep up.

 

Especially when the world is all

ginkgo leaves and plump August roses

soaked against wrought iron fences.

 

There’s even a bee huffing

at the last bits of pollen

like some wild-eyed freak

with a bag full of sharpies.

 

But who am I to judge?

 

I’m just a pair of sweaty short shorts

trying to remember

where the hell my friends are.