8 Years

I was 8 years old
And I found myself swinging
Reaching for the stars
Hoping that aliens might come from
Far off and take me to the moon

In my blanket fort, with Joe and Barbie, the checkerboard ceiling, slanted, see I lived in a cape cod With a big back yard - Writing a love story for the big screen. 

I pedaled as fast as I could, and on Rainy days I could skid my streamline silver and blue better-than-your-brothers bike AT LEAST 15 feet.

Reaching deep into my pocket
It was the spare change
For the man who was worn and withered, who hasn't eaten in days. 

I was 15.
It was the bridge over troubled water my sister sang for the senior talent show. My mother cried, I, clueless at the time figured she must've been pretty cool. 

Science fair project
Blinking lights hoping its a UFO
Going 110 on the highway
The deep breath before I asked her to be mine.
The drag on a cigarette after a beer or two and conversations about the meaning of life.
The chills when she hits that high note.
The stillness after a rain.  
The way she giggles when you kiss her neck.
It's simply,
The way the snow makes everything brighter.


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