dear

it’s the easing heat of a Boston day, June
meeting July, Will and i walk the shipyard
in Charlestown. we sit to rest in the sun.

i say, “i regret this immediately, let’s find
shade.”

“we’ve gone too far,” Will says.

i stand and begin to walk. he grunts, rises,
follows.

“this my favorite view of Boston,” i say over
my shoulder.

“it’s a nice one,” he says.

i turn back.

an ocean breeze sweeps my hair into the mess
i’m probably known for now

as people shelter under white canopies

and the shiphouses fight to stay above water

in the distance, the city stands like an
orchestra of mirrors, playing the sun off our
faces and the surface of the water.

i look back over my shoulder.

“you know,” i tell him, “i don’t feel so
bad.”

“maybe you were bad before,” he says.

i frown.

“maybe.”

“there’s one with shade,” he says. “let’s go
there.”

fifty meters later, we sit. i pull this out,
set it on the back of the bench, raised but
flat like a table.

he lays on his back next to me.

steps away, gulls comb the harbor,
travelers board a water taxi as pigeons
watch from a ledge,

a group of older people saunter by, and
another, over red brick trampled in the
opposite direction by runners cresting
a tailwind.

below, boats on the dock sway a song.

i look back at Will.

he writes his girl.

in a similar fashion, i write you.


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