Stephen Street

by Jennifer Lobaugh

Remember that summer they
tore down the school house?
When the world had just
ended (it was starting to show).

We were standing unguarded, all
sunburned and barefoot, with our
white cotton dreams on
your unmowed front lawn.

You were dressed as a
traffic light with your kid
brother Alstin, and we couldn’t stop
laughing, but I don’t remember why.

We were stuck there on Stephen Street
with chills and an iPod. Taking
solace from snow cones and
hands intertwined.

Now each time that you
smile, I still hear the same
music. I taste the sweet
sadness of our cobalt collapse.

And I wonder if I could let
go of this madness, this
elliptical magic, and
your hungry blue eyes.