It’s the season. There is lightning without thunder.
Groups of teenagers move through yellow
lit streets. Look, I’m putting my hand on your knee.
Try not to move.
See, you have hips
and it’s near ninety so why the pants,
why the buckets of water
on my stoop. You can bowl for hours.
We hide from the locals.
Your spine is somewhere in my backyard
and the fence is crumbling.
We need less black around the eyes, less green
along the jaw.
The gate keeps us in.
I’m kissing you all over your elbows, your knees.
Our neighbors watch.
We like that.