I hated how our lockers were
all nailed into the stone wall
side by side, so I
was never sure if it was me or her
he was waiting for.
And while she never spoke
a single serious word to him,
his infatuation was always there
embarrassingly clear.
(they say hindsight is 20/20.)
I should have seen it. What a waste of time.

And then there’s you.
You who loves
mangos, Queen music,
you who don’t know how to slow dance
but are willing to learn-if the right girl asks you, that is.
You who I know . . . not like the back of my hand,
which I would not recognize among the
millions of backs of hands
(one cliché that holds no meaning)
in our world.
Maybe the way you might know
every word to a favorite song,
the kind you can play
over and over and never get tired of,
or the cacophony of birdsong that greets me
every Sunday morning.

In hindsight,
you always knew what to say . . . and still do
in the sadder moments of petty drama
in moments of lung-crushing laughter
in the sweet grass as we stare at the star-studded sky
(one cliché that works. Cliché’s are overused for a reason.)

In hindsight,
had you shown up in that
myriad of people and thoughts that is a middle school hallway,
I would’ve known exactly whose locker
you were leaning against,
exactly who you were waiting to see.
(and they say hindsight is 20/20.)