Connect

This is a poem from my collection (unpublished) The Roxy Mixes

Connect

(For Roxy)

I.

You and me

and my adoptive

mother

in the background,

smiling.

We're at a house 

that was mine,

but one 

that I've never seen

before,

happy at your

arrival.

We lie next to

each other 

in the gravel driveway

(my mother behind us,

standing in the yard),

the conversation

something to do

with staying;

and hopeful, all-in-all,

until you suddenly stand up:

"what if it snows?"

you ask, with a 

look of concern,

before walking away

down the slightly sloped

driveway and onto 

the street.

"If it snows, it snows," 

I call after you,

"You can't do anything

about that."

But you keep walking.

II.

Friday Night Lights

and the East Dillon Lions,

of which I'm a part.

And Buddy Garrity there,

talking hardcore football, as usual.

I run one in for a touchdown,

to the delight of Buddy

and the Lion pride,

but it's called back.  No score.

And Buddy, pissed.

III.

In my mind, these dreams

connect, more similar than different.

Compliments, commentaries

of and on counterparts.

"'What if it snows?'"

What if it does?

But, then again,

what if it doesn't?

What then?

Author's Note

From unpublished collection, The Roxy Mixes