pop up training

but what of the times she spent languid
inside your head, imagining  light curled
through remembrance windows, fingering
sock remnants, footies to be exact, the poms of
to be even more exacting, down to the shavings
scattered by a knife your friend owned and the first
time you kissed her, behind the shack, by the river
after the game of mumbly peg. where was she then
waiting, what were her concerns as you opened
the box and let her out again, into that curious reflection
the warm yellow insides of houses of which you were out.

she decides she's done caring
 for the boy with the yellow ball
to come back. she's done wondering
how the play turns out, pretty sure
immortality wasn't exactly how he pictured it.
buzzed, a bit disappointed, yes, possibles
shut down or deeply buried still. but you know
she thinks  we came so close to the edge.
we came so close to losing it, to scatterrig into a thousand
pieces and i want to know what EGO it was
bought us back here where
there are no CIgarettes and longing
for the trap door to open and let us out
is futile and on the order of strom chasing.
she takes her selectro, ramps up
the feed back and begins to hear
fans, breaking down in the distance
to a low rumble fortelling the lightening
that will come and she lays me gently
alongside the fiver, ksses me in that terrible
intimate way, on the lips this time
she got in the car. he was thirteen, i was ten.
he left with her, his mama didn't care.
they ran a life of crime the whole summer
he said that's what you get when you get kids.
you gotta play those ten smokes.