i wouldn't call it poetry

summer

a few strands
of red hair
are suspended
on the hook of the
bathroom stall door

i muse that they must
have clung to someone's
jacket and were left
behind when they
whisked their jacket
away and disappeared

i conjure up a
bright, young girl
with bright, green eyes
and a load of freckles

i name her summer
and i imagine all kinds
of things about her

she lives in a pretty little
studio in san marcus
and she dreams of
being a chef
one day

her boyfriend
is a messy haired
aspiring engineer

she was here
because she spends
her weekends taking
cooking classes in
san antonio, and

i bet she loves puns,
and her boyfriend does
too, and that's what--

i'm done washing
my hands, and i'm
done with summer

later i'm in austin for
a weekend and i see a
bright, young girl with
red hair and i almost
exclaim aloud, "that's
her, that's summer"

but it isn't summer,
because i'm in austin,
and summer spends
her weekends in san
antonio, and because
summer never existed
in the first place

i tend to
forget little
details like that