“I am not a scientist”
she said
sitting there
on the stone wall,
her sandwich
and an apple
on her knees.

We ate there
when the weather
would cooperate
and the parking lot dust
struggled to get air born.

Cheaply developed photographs
of her kissing
her best friend as a revenge
against an ex of hers,
was the topic that one afternoon;

the very day the state tore down
the tool shed where the shop kids
all got high together.

All the smoke it made
distracted us
but provided
something new
for us to talk about,

instead of all those other things
like softer lips and perfect
kinds of pressure.

It never helped me
to remember
this, but it pops
up like the dandelions
do, ever so often,
and it over takes
the greenery
that covers up my brain
until the cold returns and everything
is wasted.

“I am not a scientist,”
she said while almost
falling off the wall
“but I am pretty sure I know
what makes me feel good.”

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