Valley Bleachers

- for PM

Photo by author’s family-Phipps Conservatory in Pittsburgh PA

We meet on the steps of

a public pool in Summer 2002:

you’re rocking John Lennon shades

with the latest copy of Rolling Stones open on the wall

next to you. Born to be a writer,

foreshadows of your future days as

editor of the Pitt News.

You dream of being NY cool,

I don’t know the meaning.

At the football game,

we sit on the bleachers:

I tell you I have a high school crush.

You rise, shake that small butt in my face,

a move vulgar to my 16 year old purity.

Though you claim it’s you,

I tell you it’s Wolf- in his leather

jacket, dark shades and boots-

the bad boy image I search for.

As I lay my head down tonight:

a voice inside: you should have told him it was him.

7 years later, I wish I had confirmed it.

I was with Jawsh

the morning I got the message

about the car crash that stole

the sweet young guy I once knew.

I put the phone down, nestle closer to him in bed.

If I died tomorrow the last thoughts

in my mind would be that I love you.

Please no more fighting.

I recall being 16 and talking about

religion and my steadfast belief in God.

You were agnostic, hard to sway.

Tell me now:

Did you ever find the yellow submarine?

Did you find peace?