Secret Playdate
Meet me at Rocketship Park after two. I’ll be chain-smoking
candy cigars, crowned with a navy skullcap
from some Gulf Coast vacation. Of course I’ll recognize
your face and hair, so perfectly unkempt,
the backyard of a house I’ve been before—
in Oakland or Nesconset—
with a doggy door and garden gone to seed.
Water ice won’t do. Let’s drink foamy blue
inventions even Mister Softee hasn’t heard of. Peacock blue.
Even our mamas can’t fix ‘em.
Come closer.
Let me take a good look at your sleep-colored lashes.
Here. Take this song. Plant a kiss on my forehead,
cool as stars, patient as cherries,
until you and I are as quick and close as rock paper scissors.
