Springtimes

Like coming home from a night of drinking,
out in the still air of late June, smelling like
Worcester triple-decker porches, all beer
and pomade and the corners of living rooms.
Like cranking up your car stereo; the blurred
moment of backseat, mix CDs, sharpies.
Like sediment.

Like the town pool at night when you took
all those photographs with the people you knew
you would always trust but wouldn't always
speak to. Like the barn that you painted, like
the house that he pressed you to while crickets
screamed wild in the grass, your blood rushing,
hungry, in your ears.

Like Allston in the summertime, all crust
punks and tattoo parlors. Like creamsickle
vodkas and soft mouths and quiet. Like pasties
and panties and punk rock and pride in moving
as much as anyone. Like being most still.

Like the echo chamber of the social network,
the still closing of a door in another part
of a house that is not yours. Like tortilla chips
and learning your own scent again, like journal
pages and digital graveyards.

Yes, like that.