Lonesome

 

His hands stuffed

in his pockets,

mine hooked

      in my belt loops –

        we stand on my parents’ front porch.

                                  His hair is shaggier,

                           jeans tighter,

      eyes just as blue.

                                                                    He heard I was visiting  :

                                                                                I still can’t say no to him.

 

At Kirby Park 

            We warp ourselves in an old

                                beach towel and roll down the dike,

                             flirt like we are fifteen again.

      He shoves a clump of grass down my shirt

                        jerks 

       his hand back

                                           unsure     

             if he should touch me

                                                           I’m not sure    either.

 

                       

At Giant’s Despair

            we lay on rocks,

                 contort our bodies  around

       the sharp points,  while trying to

                                       touch shoulders.

The cool rocks press

                  against our backs

                                            like last summer –

            except tonight

                        we don’t have much to say.

 

Laughs and shouts

          interrupt

                      our silence

as drunk kids stumble

          up on to the boulders.

                      He turns to me,

             Let’s get out of here.                                  

We sneak off the rocks.

 

Wait here a second,

       I watch him through the rearview mirror –

 crouch down on one side   :   pop up

                run to the other   :   crouch down again.

 

 

 

He falls into the driver’s seat

    Here, he drops

          an air valve cap in

               my hand,

       Keep it forever,

    drunk kids shouldn’t be driving.

 

I look down

        at the crusty cap

  look up

           into his eyes

     and find the boy from last summer.



Andrea Janov is a recent transplant to Pittsburgh who was raised by rock n’ roll parents who knew the importance of concerts and going past the no trespassing signs. She spent her adolescence in a small town punk rock scene where she moshed, fell in love, and produced a few cut and paste fanzines.  She holds Creative Writing degrees from SUNY Purchase and Wilkes University.  Find her at www.andreajanov.com