BETWEEN CLASSES

BETWEEN CLASSES

I was twelve when we built

the tree house,

Loren, Huber, and me, and they

were fifteen.

We finished three packs of Kools

that week

hot, swaying like crows in our nest

of crate-slats

and two-by-fours

waiting for sundown

long shadows, cicadas

the opening of the stars.

At night at Loren's

I stayed up drinking root beer

eating grapes

hearing Loren's stories of the high

school girls

uneasy in my underwear my thighs

clenched tight

fighting to keep it

manageable

until we slipped out back

into darkness to smoke to take a

pee.

Beside the garage

we lined up in our underwear

me in the middle

Loren and Huber a foot taller on either

side.

In the shadows

our Kools glowed

menthol taste, dewy night.

Something in the smoking

in the swaying summer branches

had made me one of them

my own smallness

faded

as we looked down

on the street

through leaves

unseen, yet seeing

and I took one last draw

watched the tip brighten

down to the butt

summer burning itself out

around us

school almost here

and aimed myself at the white garage

and Loren and Huber turned,

laughed,

peed down both my legs.