on being five

perched on the stoop,

in his ketchup-stained

batman suit

she shooed him out,

when that man pulled up

in his rusted-red toyoto

pick-up truck

counted ants, and

gingerly placed ritz cracker

crumbs in their path

wiped his nose

with the back of his hand,

lodged tiny missiles

at the cigarette-stuffed

dr. pepper can

stared hard

into the blood-stained sun,

and when it started to fade,

he closed his eyes

to the sounds

those sounds

from inside.

she was supposed to teach him how to tie his shoes today.

it reminds me

the color yellow,

it reminds me

of the mustard stain

on that old ranger’s shirt

(it eventually became mine)

that time

you caught a foul ball,

cheeks rosy and chaffed

from the wind

 

we snuck out,

giggling, like teenagers

on a first date

while Bibby was pitching,

to that drafty old ford

that was always out of gas

made it back inside

for the last inning

pretended not to notice

that couple who stared

(a few buttons were missing) 

when it’s almost raining,

but not quite

just a slow trickle,

gaining momentum,

it reminds me

of early mornings,

and your broken coffee pot,

how it would sputter

the grounds would float,

dark, like ants,

when you added cream

and i would turn up my nose,

and drink it black

i would sit in front of your stove

because the heater was broken

and read

while you worked intently

at your math

caught you staring

through the doorway,

once

i remember how you laughed

and laughed

(and laughed)

silence is golden

porch whispers
at three in the morning
citronella candle smoke
burns sweetly in my nose
humid nights
and the sound of silence in the air
the reason i can't find the words
isn't because they aren't there
it's just they sometimes get frozen
by the intensity of your stare