for Jim & Cyndi Roelofs
One might say, driving
By an old skating rink, Ghosts
On wheels. In our inner ears,
We dredge up a past, reserved
For only a few: in a dark corner
Of the empty building, we glance
At the dusty skate concession;
Tuesday’s morning catch wafts
Through a number of broken windows.
I want to say: Yes! Just Yes!
In the 50s, people liked skating.
It was a good thing to do.
They’d suck in the Pacific wind,
On Tuesdays, similar to this. Crosby
Might be singing in a back room,
As boys and girls touched shoulders,
Then lips; spinning in circles
For hours. This is a lavish ride.
The car purrs its way out of town.
We watch the two of you
Roll down your windows at just
The right time, in hopes
Of breathing in trees. They are skaters,
We say; even in the heat
We come back to, they are skaters.
Copyright © 2006 by Sam Pereira