Fruit Salad Under Stars

Worn sneaker soles slide down

worn asphalt shingles,

slathered in a butter glow

melting from your bedroom window.

   We’ll wash the dishes afterward.

Now is the time for silver to pierce

crisp apple wedges, watermelon cubes,

strawberry halves, grape wholes

piled in porcelain cupped in cold palms.

   We shouldn’t take too long.

Even the crickets are silent tonight, sedated

by the knowledge these minutes are reserved for you

and me and sleepy skies heavy with glitter—

a few flecks land on your hair as we lean shoulder to shoulder,

listening to whispered stories and loose laughter but                     

   We have to go in now.

Legs stiff, we stand and sway on the edge. Small, sticky fingers

cling to warm, calloused ones. Years drag us apart again. We crawl

upslope and close the window behind us. Watermelon seeds try

to doggy paddle when we rinse remains down the drain. Perhaps  

in sewers they’ll join the glitter you wash out of your hair.