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water and stone, both shimmering in the gloaming.
fingers drumming on a desk, matches in a box, a key with no lock.
squeaky wooden floor, carved oak doors
left slightly ajar so the light trickles in, catching dust.
a burgundy rug, tattered and run through, hard rubbed in the corners,
like the one under the piano stool.
sticky black keys, repeating.
a chipped, white bucket of green beans, unstringed,
glistening with beads of water, tiny prisms in the sun.
dry pipe tobacco in the drawer of the bedside table.
our checker board missing one black.
winning. losing.
a racing bike, red and yellow and rust proof.
rubber bands, because you can never have enough.
a pocket full of sand, gritty like scraped knuckles.
two pages from an Algebra book, burned with matches.
a green row boat with bleached and crackled oars.
daisies in a Mason jar on the window sill, inchworms on the tips of my fingers,
snapdragons and honeysuckles, the smell of winter, skeleton trees bending, brown leaves
in gray-muck puddles, loose barbed wire fences and secret water falls.
running in tall, tall grass. hide and seek in the dark.
the taste of Styrofoam cups, blackberry stained fingers, briar scratches that itch.
cockleburs in the cuffs of my jeans. dogs chasing rabbits in the clouds.
cows lowing. dogs barking. babies cooing. trains moaning in the night.
Her hair in a book of mine,
caught
between the pages and the spine.
skipping stones in the last light.
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