in late afternoon
along that street,
we watched the sun,
an old hiker
sink homeward
behind trees,
and we,
on the verge
of possibility
and mystery,
marched through
yards where hedges
glowed sci-fi yellow.
We zoned in on
the road,
searched
for a slip-stream
of brunette,
blonde,
or red-headed
hair
undulating
like a flaming
match head.
We could have cared
less
which shade of want,
a scenario
blazed through
our minds:
Car passes,
head turns,
inviting eyes,
bright smile.
Fifty yards up,
it decelerates
to a dusty
stop. Now,
what do we do?
But there were no takers
on our way toward sunset,
only the neighbor wife.
"You guys need a ride?" she smiled.
Suddenly serious,
we shook our heads, no,
and she zoomed away,
probably pitying
two young buffoons
lost in Jasmine
like perfume-drunk bees.
Dusk met us
at the corner store.
We flopped on the steps,
drained of energy
like the sky losing color.
We became night,
humming in our own hives,
not exactly delighted nor defeated,
just two boys
waiting to chase
another day.
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