Many nights ago,
when the moon lost her innocence
and ran behind a rock in the pond,
I sat on the edge of the grass and listened
to old frogs splash
and giggle over a prudish male.
I scratched my thoughts in sand
like a caveman drawing pictures
of his wife bathing.
But you weren’t there.
I poked sense into dirt
like horses that count for sugar,
and knew why it always rained on a picnic.
Drunks always stare at little children
and scratch their pockets on October’s last try.
Skirts like to fly —
Up here —
No here —
until drunks sit by themselves
and wonder about little boys.
But you sit and watch your lovers
at the park that you slept with.
Park benches are so cold in November.
Some leaves never fall from trees,
and others, like laughter, are covered by snow.
Leaves often float downstream and catch
sunlight on each tip. But you don’t.
And when they come to sleep in my pond,
when tips dip and fall into water
I see why you lie where you do.
when I walk home —
down by the street light that winks as I go,
I’ll listen to cars roar in garages
like we used to in bed.
And I will look at your bench
and smell your friends.
My laughter will be heard by no one.
I’ll remember you at Christmas time.