Where did you go, Ronni, Calli? I remember you,
on a dark street years from here,
your dad’s chevy slowly rolling
by the bungalow of a dark-eyed boy
we all admire, with parents known
to be seldom home.
Small hands pass around a thermos
filled with Jimmi (beam);
your dad would not miss it
you thought.
I’d rather smoke weed with Dark Eyes,
I know he has some,
but the porch light is off,
dog is silent, door looks bolted closed.
What happens next,
friends of the yearning years?
how long will we sit here
in shadows, willing a boy
with dangerous eyes
to come outside
the moon so close,
you could throw your shoe and hit it.
