A Pilot Came Knocking

A pilot came knocking on our door
one summer, holding a photograph
of our house that he took from his plane.
The house was a custom-built colonial
with a painted red garage, the rest all green.
From the sky you could still
make out our playground,
the yellow slide, the blue canopy,
my mother’s car parked outside
at the bottom of the long, sloping driveway,
the silvery tracks left by lawnmowers
across the surrounding grass.
My father usually turned away solicitors,
but this time he paused,
looking at the summation of our life
in miniature, gave the man money,
and shook his hand.

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I Miss When Music Was an Occasion

I miss when music was an occasion,
when I would sit on the backyard stoop
with my Discman on my lap,
wearing headphones that wrapped
over the top of my head,
the kind with soft, black foam
that cupped my ears on either side.
Whole summers I remember
from the songs that played,
marking every passing year.

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Girls’ Night Out

It’s a Friday night and we’re out dancing
on the top floor of a Cambridge bar.
In the restaurant below, people are sipping wonton soup
and biting chicken teriyaki off bamboo skewers.

Tomorrow I’ll wake with a bitter taste
in my mouth and strangled knots in my head
that pulsate like tonight’s pounding bass.
But for now, I sway from side to side
and watch you swivel your hips and raise one hand
with fingers curling toward your palm.

In the other hand you grasp a plastic cup
filled with some effervescent drink,
more beautiful than cheap liquor has any right to be,
some of which is spilling down your hand,
twisting around your wrist like a shiny bangle bracelet.