Like the teenager
white-knuckling her house keys
while the boy who adores her snaps
her picture by the brick wall
so he can add the photo later
to the shrine he keeps back home.
And the producer whose house
looks out over the valley
that, at night, fills with stars so
luminous he is able to count each of
the blinking red, white, and blue
lights of the city
that lie beneath his window
like some priceless Persian rug.
And the schoolgirl who finds herself
swinging higher than ever before
on the metal swings of
the playground, telling secrets,
sotto voce, to her wiser, older self.
And the unrequited lover
who pushes his broken
car even this much closer
to the house of his beloved
just so he can ring her bell,
ask her mother if he can use
the phone to call his parents.
It’s late, he says, quite
sheepishly, and I am
just so far from home.
*draft number 11 or 12
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