comeover comeover She smiled

Blue sky stained grey from smoke.
Every backyard this afternoon
A fence containing barefoot children
A grill filled with meats
A patio…
From the speaker I carry with me everywhere
Comes sounds from twenty years past.
Smoke clouds surround
     “Have you heard ‘Trainspotting’?” she asks, billowing Camel smoke.
     “No, but I’ve read it.”
     She pulls a CD from her hemp purse, slides it in, skips to thirteen.
     “Just listen.”
     We drive south, to a campground where everyone awaits.
     We’ve beers and whiskeys and wines in the trunk.
     Summer sun falls to our right and, if you don’t know,
     Summer suns in Kansas City melt your mind and your face.
     She is barefoot always and sunlight spills into her lap.
     My car is a failure and insufficient in every way except its stereo
     So this is what she shares with me:
     A song
     This song
Here now with me
Me with spatula in hand, overlooking smoke and fire and flesh
Looking out over other backyards with baseball-capped men
And pony-tailed women and smiling, bouncing, barefoot children, all possibilities laid out on the trim, green lawn before them.
     Voice an instrument
     I’m no longer driving but being driven
     Being driven into a future frustrated by a stale, ignorant history.
     Still sunlight spills into her lap and she dances as fresh as she can when contained by a torn, bucket seat
     “Don’t you love it? I knew you’d love it.”
     She knew I’d love it, knew I’d love barreling down a two-lane highway to nowhere, really,
     But rather to everyone we knew at that time.
     Eighty-five miles-per-hour driving rhythms in my ears,
     Driving lyrics in my brain,
          Let your feelings slip boy but never your mask boy
     To everyone who cheered us as heroes when the alcohol arrived,
          Shouting lager lager lager lager
     To everyone who ran through the campground fields, barefoot and wasted,
     To everyone, everyone, passing out in lawn chairs by the quiet lake,
Some of them in backyards of their own.
Some of them heating dead animals for food.
Some of them lost in songs from twenty years ago.
Some of them remembering barefoot children stomping through the naked grass.

comeover comeover She smiled

13 thoughts on “comeover comeover She smiled

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