Don't tell, but I like someone.
As I sit next to him under our
tree, I ask, "Do you like anybody?"
but he dodges my question
by picking up a pill bug.
He throws it at me,
making me squeal, and I tackle him
in revenge.
The games start after
we meet under that huge
tree, and we always
start by being very serious, like in
a church meeting,
though it only lasts a moment.
We giggle and laugh, trying to stifle
the sound,
because we're "adults,"
or at least, in
our games, we like to pretend
we are.
We often go on treasure
hunts with make-shift maps,
the "x" marked out
crookedly
in his mother's carmine lipstick.
As blue bleeds from our
sky and the street lamp hugged
by the branches of our tree stutters on,
I watch him skip home, acorns
and things piled in
his pockets:
the treasures of our hunts.
Don't tell, but I like him,
and I blush, kicking rocks
all the way home.
YOU ARE READING
All That's Left
PoetryCollection of poems following random thoughts, sometimes dark, sometimes light, sometimes weird.
