Clockwork.

We play, you and I
a pair, duex, two,
to school on the first day
you held a red crayon to your
hair, “it’s red not orange.” I ate a banana.
My face broke out in shame so
I laughed at your braces, you sigh
still, at the memory of birds’ shadows
skimming city park benches.
I grew, saw you anew, we went through
all the awkward friend, love, friend, date, friend,
let’s just keep it the same old way.
Your father died on a Monday.
I thought you would lose it on Tuesday,
but instead it was Wednesday. The world felt pain too
for we warred on a Thursday, and Friday I cried
from a broken finger, heart, mind at the sight
of my smashed car. It took us a year to recover
from the fight about June. She wasn’t for you.
We are old, music’s softer now. But we play anyway.
We play, you and I.