to go to the old bleachers
on Saturday nights,
by
the sandlot
field
overrun with weeds
and bramble,
we used
to go there with our
cherry wine,
our sloe
gin
and smoke, and laugh,
and try
to understand
girls,
those mysterious creatures
who
were like
fish,
slippery in our grasp
so quick to swim.
they were
our same age,
but so much older than
we would ever
be.
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