Sometimes we drive around looking at all the empty houses. We go around cloaked in night and the silence of a parking lot. In the Fiesta’s front seat with our windows open, we were happy, and I could touch it. Some nights we walk to the gas station and watch the traffic congest around the highway on-ramp. Every driver has some wild story, we are sure, even a tame wild is more than we know. We were bored and hungry for anything to happen.

And sometimes we would come around to the old Palm River lawn. Under those pink stone doric columns. You said you knew a family that lived in one of the trailers before. I picked the dry overgrown grass between my fingers. I still have that switch I braided from the sawgrass. We bore the marks of it, too. My wet grass calves itched. I still remember your shoulder and the way the late noon light notices your scapula and clavicle, the fluid ripple of a stone skipped lake.