Not Work Safe
I remember them,
she gives the universe good poem,
he’s got a gas card coupon,
she eats organic kale and apricots,
he’s grown middle aged on burgers and fries,
she has yoga pants and remember birthdays,
he can’t tell you her middle name.
I remember before they met,
before long nights spent on walks hand in hand along frosty swing sets,
a world where she still had her italian scarf,
before lions had tasted blood in the moon light of spaghetti sauce and seat-belts,
I remember them, and I remember you and me,
new stories balanced on the kiss of coffee creamer, sausage sweaty arm pits,
and kitty litter.
I remember when, and I remember you and me.
