they say working class people have working class kids.

standing barefoot on

our old wooden porch,

paint chipped,

i realize that our 

sleepy little town

will

never change. i take

a drag of a cigarette,

and think i can

appreciate

that. a plume

of white escapes

my mouth to 

create a cloud in

the otherwise

cloudless sky. 

i'd love to sit and reminisce, but my friends are never home.

i remember summer days

when we’d press flowers

between wax pages, and

find ways to scale a

six foot tall picket fence.

how many meters is that?

that’s something you would know

now that the sun has set

on summers and the 

color has faded from our

memories. 

i remember—

we used to chase each other

through what we thought

were miles

of woods, a 

valiant knight and a princess,

(always a princess),

killing or befriending dragons—

depending on the day.

i guess we’ve traded in 

our stick-swords for

something we thought 

would be better. 

truth be told, i’m not 

sure it was the best 

decision—

but they do say we

didn’t have a choice.

there is no such thing as darkness, only the absence of light.

my shadow casts itself

tall and gangly

onto the faded

pavement. it’s 

strange, that something

separate from me

still carries an

awkward quality—

a feeling i thought

i’d tucked away

with the mementos of

my youth.

baptism.

the air is warm, but
the rain chills my
skin with each
large drop, 
raising the hair on
my arms—
seeping into my
pores. 
i often wonder
what it’s like
for you,
each summer storm
packing your
ashes like
mud.