the age of trees

and some days we would just sit in the parking lot
drinking 99 cent iced tea from tall aluminum cans
thinking about how old the tree by the dumpster was

250 years, you swore. i thought about some girl
sitting beneath the tree when it was a sapling,
if she thought about how she might grow up and not
do the things she was supposed to do–get married,
have children, live in a big house with no furniture–

we finished our drinks, tossed them in the dumpster
we knew the feeling of the concrete parking blocks
so well through the fabric of our shorts,
and i kissed you, so familiar with the feeling
of your mouth on mine, so bored
as one must get after 250 years.


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