Update.

Time was, I could pretend he was the tide.
He was the force that washed their boat ashore in the
Summers when I’d wait outside with a popsicleFor the van to come around the corner.
There was that two story playhouse out back by the pool,
And a wooden shed, smelling of pine and full of curiosities,
From a time before ours.
We rarely went inside, would run to dinner when called,
And we’d both convince our parents to let us stay out later,
Because it was summer, and the sunset was prolonged
Just for us.
But night would fall, and we would pretend not to know.
The pavement was still warm long after dark,
Long after I’d lost my shoes.
And maybe I’d ride my bike around in circles, and watch the
Shadows of the moths projected bigger than life-size across
Grass bathed in yellow light from the street.
And maybe we imagined that we had to shout
Over the singing of the frogs.

I sat alone on the curb last night, in front of the vacant house.
The curtains didn’t stir; no kindly old face emerged.
The frogs sang still, and the moths fluttered around the streetlight.

It’s only that we grew up.