You

You call me cutie and I call you beauty. You are young and I am young too, on days like this. A wind that yesterday crossed the north Pacific lifts your hair as you look up at the sound of a passing airplane. What are you thinking? I massage your neck, my hand white beneath shifting strands of auburn. You close your eyes, then move away. I don’t know how to handle you. Again I mention your beautiful skull, again you look at me suspiciously.

Who am I kidding? My culture is exhausted, yours is inarticulate. We come to the park instead of going downtown to meet my friends. We never meet your friends either, unless we happen upon them in the park. Then you abandon me and go off with them, as if embarrassed by my presence. I find an inconspicuous bench and slump into middle age, keeping an eye on you, wishing time would somehow stop and throw itself into reverse—beep, beep, beep—like that garbage truck backing up to the remains of last week’s picnics. What am I doing here? I still think of my body as me, I’m not ready to let it go.

You return alone, somewhat disheveled, and kiss me lightly. You are young. I put some weeds I’ve been twisting into your hair and you shake them out. How little we know each other.

I tell you I’ve forgotten the customs of innocence, but you look away, fretting, like a poor student hoping to go unnoticed. It’s OK that you don’t understand. It’s endearing. Do you understand or not? Sometimes I think you’re being stubborn. You run, swooping through the tall grass where I can’t follow. My shoes, darling, remember? I call to you and you pretend not to hear. Have you lost something in the tall grass? Have you lost? I don’t think so. What could you lose? You, light and carefree? My pockets contain enough for both of us. No, you found something, you are always finding something. You are more observant that way than I am. All I see is you, the rest of the world has faded from overuse.

You refuse to look up, stubborn young stubborn. I’m helpless and happy at the edge of the grass with you out there so robust and alive. I would run to you if it weren’t for my shoes. Life is a lark when we are together.

I call you again sharply. Not impatiently, I’m competing with the wind. You spin on your heels and run to me smiling. You spin and run like a horse. No I mean that in a good way. Horses are beautiful, that’s why I could never understand the term “horse face.” Besides, I’m talking about the way you run, not your face. Long legged fragile beauty. What were you doing in the tall grass? You won’t tell me. You dodge under my glance, teasing. You found something in the grass, a key ring, a postcard, perhaps, with a foreign stamp. No, you’re not a reader, but the stamp would intrigue you. A rusty tube of lip gloss? I wipe a brown smudge from your lip and smell my thumb. The odor yanks at my senses and I bellow in disgust. You’ve been eating shit again. I rub my thumb in the grass and scold you. Why? why? why? Why am I so happy? Life is a lark. Nevertheless I won’t kiss you for two days.