I remember Sandy Klek’s quartz encrusted
zippo that felt like a pistol in my hand.
Waving it in the sky
I shot down birds, and
planes, and aluminum
encrusted satellites.

I remember the man with prodding eyes
across the blue, “Whatever,
prolly doin’ the same” shrugged Sandy.
Her feet
                stanced wide, hips
shifted into
the sun. I was poking and
prodding.

We lived like Cowboys
from the future. Kissing
Peach Schnapps and stuffing
Scandinavian pipe-tobacco
into stolen Zig-Zags

found in the middle
of the desk with the heavy
drawer that needed
both hands– strong,
like a bronco-buster
               to push
and pull.