When I'm driving down Deer Hill
forty-three miles an hour
at two forty-seven am
& listening to Jets to Brazil,
I am thinking of you
with shoulder cut hair
blond in snow-reflected sun
with your shirt off
at the shoulder.
& when I pull into my driveway
where I don't play basketball with my brother
now & is always filled with cars,
the headlights paint a chain link fence
gray, still I think of you
skin browned in a beach sun
you spend your mornings under
with brown dyed hair
and your eggshell toes
curling beneath the sand.
Later, when I strip and lie in a bed
I call my own, I will pull the
jersey sheets over my body
& still think of you
bent over my smiling face
planting strawberry kisses
on the hairs of my beard
rustling in the smooth breeze.
Here, I will wake,
I will do so alone,
and you will not.
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