daring me with their mischievous sparkle. I look
beyond, into the summer, into the sticky black inner
tubes and mostly straight drift wood rods, the screams of
delight and anger. I return to the jungle filled
with weed bamboo forts built with dull
machetes and knives.
I bite Shy�s hand as he grasps for
another snowball, one from a pile I wrote. Fling
myself onto the mare�s musky back and
gallop away from the fence, where he stands
waiting for me to finish, so we can rustle the
evening away, playing cowboys and indians
on our bicycles until the last light fades.
And now I look at Shy�s eyes, the sunlight
gone from them, into a world of gloating lust
and drugs. I look into them
and remember
my childhood friend.
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