The Counter
“The Counter”
You counted dandelions in right field
at five minutes past five o’clock
in a game you never played.
You accepted the stains of summer,
the danger of somersaulting over sprinklers
maybe thirty three or thirty nine times.
You loved to fall in love, but not so fast.
Her clothes are too colorful, her teeth are too mean.
She was missing one.
You’ll get there first to survey the space,
to tell me how few were the times
that I prayed for the pandas or for the rebels.
I may not recognize you until the third try.
My eyes have not yet been fully trained
to understand the body.
You will grin the way you do
when you say some unspeakable thing
like “I’m going to French Kiss her for fourteen minutes.”
I worry that you will then tell me that I loved you
only thirty three or thirty nine times.