Searching the varied pockets of youth
looking for whatever memories may have collected
I find ripped parachutes attached to little plastic men
and little clay marbles, the ammunition for slingshots.
Within the button clasped pocket on a pair of OshKosh B'Gosh's
there are a handful of dead bees and dried out dandelion heads.
In an old coat,
a soap sculpture and several unstitched merit badges
In an old torn pair of blue corduroys I find a picture of you.
I am next to you and you are holding me wearing that smile
that means you're already a little drunk
and I remember that then, we already thought that we were
that old kind of young and that pictures weren't
important because we could sit there a little drunk,
hold each other and smile forever.
