Either end of the same street.
Same neglect, same shaming.
Same keepsake maple leaves
pressed between pages
of World Book Encyclopedia.
We had the creek and bust-out laughter.
Caged beagles that licked us
through chain-link. And shadows coiled
in the verges. Delight and fear
twinned in our hearts.
At night, we walked each other
halfway home, toed the asphalt's
center line. Always, moths plastered
the milky streetlamps. Always a flicker of bats.
I'd walk you halfway home, then
all the way. After that, you'd walk me back,
the shifting distance too fierce
for either one of us
to brave alone. Eventually,
on a count of three
we broke and ran. I always paused
to turn, am turning still, to see
the empty cone of lamplight
where once you stood, a long-limbed girl,
barefoot and alone.
