I’m sitting on a log
that has a heart carved into it.
He’s sitting on the log opposite
picking at the bark.
The campfire shifts, sparks
climbing into the night air
to join all those errant stars.
And I ask him,
What are you thinking about,
and he says, Nothing.
I’ve never been able to do that,
think about nothing, I tell him.
Like this, my finger traces
the carved heart – Who carved it.
A boy or a girl. Was it young love,
and when does young love stop –
when you’re not young, or when
love becomes something else.
It’s like when I tell you to
unplug the toaster before you
poke your knife at the bread.
And he’s staring into the flames,
as if he’s thinking, and then he
looks up and says, What toaster?
Written for Waterways, Ten Penny Players, and published in their September issue. Image: AI ©Misky 2022