I could write a poem
that no one could tell was for you,
It would be about indented soccer balls
in a jungle of grass,
a parched hose
and a scatter of rusted steel springs,
A tale of all of us,
diving behind recycling bins
and inhaling clean air to hold in silence
on top of a chipping brown shed
air shots crackling like fireworks,
leaving swelled purple welts,
infesting our stomachs
How your smirk would fade
into a vacant termination,
Your mumbled “Hello's”
through muffled speakers
and your short remarks
ending with a pause
and then the dial tone,
I could write
coupled with the pungent scent
of cabbage and rice
and a single newspaper
adhered to asphalt,
Ink faded,
words of foreign dialect
and a single phone number
unscathed from the seasons.