i think about taking you with me
to the orange stone columns spread across the skyline. i
think
they look like the time your sister
took safety scissors and cut
chicago out of construction paper.
you know the way it smells.
instead i take you out
between the breaking houses
where we know
the couches smell like
cats and soup and casseroles
and cigarettes even though
they made plans to build back porches for smoking
and their collapsible lawn chairs
striped fourth of july parade and neon yellow.
it's like how my brother keeps his
red and white cooler in his backseat.
we sit next to each other on separate benches
and talk about preying mantises
and you tell me they kill each other
when they finish loving.
then we turn back down toward the city that
sucks on the edge of the great lake
with a storm hanging on its lip.
yesterday we drove the same way
and you put your hand on top of
mine on top of the stick shift
but not after that.
not for a while, at least.
dinner's cooling when we walk in
and you catch the screen door with
your bare heel
and i think of how you might
buy terrycloth slippers to match your wrinkles
when we're old.
and you smile at me. you
ask me if the colgate's working yet.
i don't want to talk about that right now.
i wonder
sometimes
just how far one tank of gas would take us
if that were all we had.
i wonder
if we would still see the lake from there.
it's endless.