What It Is For

January 11, 2008
By Gregory Wajda, Arlington Heights, IL

This is for the afternoon we lay in the leaves
the emerald grass turning our fingernails green,
tickling my cheek as I turn to peek at you.

This is for every night under the stars,
a blazing orange comet accompanying them.
I thought of the night of fireworks smearing the sky,
When I sat on one the blue blanket,
And you laying on the red, a foot away.

This is for our ride and fall on
The green scrubbed filled foothill,
A chuck wood fence enshrouding its perimeter,
A painted yellow line,
I pull you to my side, still with me now.

This is for the morning in the hallway,
the silver crescent necklace you always wore,
and the maze of blonde your hair formed,
the first time I met you.

This is for the ring I gave you,
the morning I peered down the moldy sewer,
That’s fine…
I’ll go for a swim.

This is for me now,
for the time in the rubber yellow booth,
Raising one first to my mouth,
clearing the my throat with a cough to the side,
and shocking you speechless,
only able to blink and glance outside,
tour car parked next to the only tree in the parking lot,
a broken brown knob of the radio on the floor mat.

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