Sleeping Quarters

You were Nehi to a grasshopper,

and I was Orange Crush to a cricket.

I remember when we didn’t have any cash in our pockets,

just a handful of dimes and nickels.

We’d scavenge for a quarter or two, which we’d use to buy a warm can of soda.

We’d split it in the park,

watching the older kids play basketball,

and we would talk about where we hoped life would take us.

Life always did the taking —

I was always too passive,

and neither one of us could seem to get ahead.

Even now, I can smell the wild onions in the spring grass,

and I remember a time when neither one of us cared about lottery numbers,

cared about winning the jackpot so we could chase our dreams.

I’m often at the Dollar General across from the train trestle,

where I often buy two-dollar chocolates,

seven-dollar chocolates,

and fistfuls of silk flowers for your headstone.

I’ll always save something for you,

because you were the one who stretched the minutes into hours

and made time to dream with me.