Treasure recycled

  Dig into the recent past with me and find

  a cache of inventor’s dreams. We readjust

  the creative waves and sift through the boxes

  of wealth hidden in plain view at the back of

  the parking lot, back of the elementary school,

  boxes someone dared to label recycle—

  waste of space. We fit into those spaces

  like best friends do, more snug than our shoulders

  around each other like the Golden bridge spanning

  oceans and our dancing ideas—add

  the final touches to the gumball machine,

  tighten the gears and flip

  through the blueprints to our trio. Forget your crisp

  fears of fire drills, muse on the treasures

  we looted like ancient libraries, ours

  for the taking on the tail end

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  of summers like this.

  Sixth-grade style

  Your distaste dictates the weather, flaming gray

  clouds like the coattails of some other kind

  of storm. Turn other heads—mine is throwing

  down the foundations of outer space, racing

  the strings of comets with fleets of rockets and ships.

  But you remember that one time? I was loitering

  on the grounds, surrounded by the shadows of gym

  plastic, gray and stern like stop signs when it

  happened. I was wearing that new hat,

  the nice one

  fresh from the trucks and trains, new tags hanging

  off it like streamers in a parade when it happened.

  And that’s when you noted casually the flight

  of strange birds, black and white like chess pieces,

  rocketing down like man eager to conquer the moon,

  sights set on the hat, the nice one, the new one.

  And like a stage man at the close, I swept

  the hat off my head, holding it above

  me like the sun as I bowed toward the grass. And although

  you’d never put words to the soccer ball incident,

  I saw the way your eyes lit up, eyebrows raised

  like train crossings. Style that shocked us both

  like light-struck night bugs.