too big for the suburbs.
He stands behind, she
feels the moment his mind stops
listening, starts moving.
Old eyes smile, watching
as two drink Starbucks coffee
and he rescues her smile.
It’s not a movie
but in their coffee booth world
all eyes type-cast them:
The hero, blue eyed
Captain Smith, Amazon wo-
man, Pocahontas.
*****
She sips her mocha,
in her eyes for a moment
he is twelve again.
At her parent’s house
he’s calling for her brother
on his mountain bike.
She remembers more
summers of cinema trips
and exchanging books.
Alexander Blok
for Whitman’s ‘Leaves of Grass’; they
never gave them back.
He sees her smile, but
to explain, she’d have to say
‘I’ve still got your book.’
Smiling back he says he’s
glad she’s exactly who she
was supposed to be.
*******
Talking with many words,
cold hands, accident touching,
they walk slowly home.
Night stars and car head
lights, divisible by three
breaths of leaving.
Speaking with you is
like putting a book down,
without marking the page.
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