franklin st

for days the dry cold branches clanked together
bright sun dried the moss that grows on my way to school
down franklin street

I pass your shop pretending it’s not your shop
I pretend you’re on vacation
I wait for a postcard
from the unfamiliar places you must be travelling now

today I heard what sounded like gunshots
I looked upward and alert through the rain
saw a squirrel on a thick branch
covering his body with his wiry tail
my boot cracked on the bottom and water seeped in all day

they asked if I was good friends with you
I said
no

one sopping sock
I climb the familiar hill
and find a goldmine of fallen pine cones
large, wet, some open, some shut
I stuff several in my sack
hoping the owner of the yard in which the tree sits
does not view this as theft

I wanted to give you that first pine cone
I truly did
why am I thinking of fingers through your hair
this wasn’t supposed to be about you

I look for the little blue car parked on my block
every time I come home

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