I remember (quite more than vaguely)
stretched on giant blades of matted grass
with my sister
while my father played softball.
I didn't care about the game;
only the fictional characters
I had imagined were sitting
with my sister and me.
I do not remember (not even vaguely)
the day I met my first love
nor the day I fell in love with him
nor what I said the last time we spoke.
Yet, I cared more about him
than any game of softball.
Perhaps I was too busy
imagining the characters.
No comments :
Post a Comment