for Jill Kelly

     He smoked, and that was good.  You and I
     snuck peeks at old Cosmos in the library stacks
     when our parents thought we were learning

     about the Cold War, so we knew a man
     with an oral fixation was something to look for.

     And he fit all our dreams: dark, handsome,
     from a distance he seemed tall.  When he played
     bass guitar in the school talent show, we swayed

     along in the front row, watching the muscles
     in his arms thicken and rise with every chord

     change.  His hair swung damply along the sides
     of his face, and we sighed, and wished ourselves
     the sweat that weighed it down.  When we discovered

     his locker, there was no question what came
     next.  You stood lookout, shifting nervously

     while I wrapped my fingers around the lock,
     said a prayer, and pulled.  Inside we found
     his jacket, black, and paint-splattered.  You

     closed your eyes and backed away, but I
     leaned in, taking the scent of smoke and leather

     mixed together, learning him through my held
     breath.  Then a sound around the corner - I ran,
     not waiting to warn you.  I heard a gasp

     behind me, then suddenly we were running
     up the stairs, out the door, struggling between

     fright and laughter.  We fell on the grass together,
     holding our knees in the cold hard air, and
     finally breathing in deeply, once, then again.