Ben + Carol '85'

There where the river squeezes itself,
slides itself off in a loud rush between slick rocks
weary and worn with the endless sluicing --
there on a large boulder
Ben marked his love for Carol in white paint in 85.
I bet it was summer.
Today it's winter, 20 years later
and his testimony stands, weary itself
on the granite.

I wonder where you are Ben, if Carol knew.

I wonder if Fall came on and she slipped off,
just another girl you dated in high school
or if your love was good and found a good home
with Carol and someday, perhaps already,
more love words will be carved into more stone
in the grass above your heads, asleep.

I wonder what the sun felt like on your bare skin
as you both stretched to bake on this slab,
drunk on beer and cigarettes and those long looks.

I wonder if you were older than I am now and
your wife, Carol had left you in a bitter month
like this and you wrote because it was still true
to you and so you scrawled the truth that hadn't left yet --
something everyone -- even you Ben,
were tired of hearing by now and so you tried
to lay it down here in blocky, shaking script.

I wonder if you saw, as I do now,
because of your broken heart, how slight the
step from this ledge is to being dashed good
and done on all that's broken down below.
She's not worth it, Ben.

I'd like to wonder what happened on the blanket
you spread in the night alive where I'm standing
but I'll leave you two alone now -- you lovers that
murmur in the shadows here, drown out by the
sound of what rushed, what still rushes past the
rocky point there to pool in the cool bed farther on.