“4.15.05” By Matt Hubert © 2005

The day of my brother’s sweet 16,
yet I’m celebrating her
nothing more than
textual interest of course.

Note to self: this is not a date.
Do not contemplate and thus complicate.
Just park the Civic in the back and give
a simple campus tour—there’s plenty to show.
She’s playing Ben Folds on the piano, right now.
Note to self: I know, I know.
Now we’re fooling and flirting in dad’s studio
where Billy Ocean sings and
we have to get going. Going outside
to a park bench in the dark, then
she breaks the silence with a priceless
50 Cent verse—Wait, was that really her?
With time running out, hunger sets in
and mouths full of doubt DQ the taste of ice cream—
White like the Album that plays us each way.

Close to curfew, she has to head home, but first
we’ll share songs together alone. Sudden verbal musical cue,
then instincts punctuate the night we knew.
Many months, like minutes later,
“I still…can’t quite…seem…to catch…my breath.”