We climbed in through your window. I don't remember why. But I remember the sky. I t was grey and hanging low. You lay on your back with the girl I liked on the railway bridge over the river downtown. We stole the green sweater with a hole in the elbow. Rick kept the sweater that he said had been his to begin, until I wore it and it became mine. A few years later, in another city, a girl I liked with pale skin and candy red hair wore the green sweater. It looked great on her. I've not seen it since.
Maybe you don't consider this a compliment, but this sounds like a long lost Bukowski poem. From my perspective, a great thing. Last three lines are PERFECT.
ReplyDeleteI'd like to see a whole book of these little train of thought stories. Good stuff. DaveD
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