POEM A DAY – April 10 – VANESSA SHIELDS

Bench

I was in my car waiting in a line of pouting vehicles
on Tecumseh Road East. It was hot. My windows
were open. I looked to my right and on a concrete
bench, the kind with a large ad on the backrest
(real estate? a woman’s head, text, a phone number)
Two teens, kissing.

Like, making out. Mouths open, tongues touching.
They were sitting beside each other, kind of twisting
into each other’s faces. He kissed her neck, her cheeks.
They kept their eyes closed. Her backpack was still on.
Both wore high school uniforms. Her hair was long,
falling over her neck. He moved it out the way, gently

kissed her neck. Again. I felt…shy and proud
and giddy, and the entire world stopped in those
moments – it was all passion and mouths and
…and what? Purity? Innocence? Risk? It was
me, twenty years ago. Reaching for his mouth
on Ouellette, his back against the brick wall

outside 13 Below. That tiny bar with the
expensive drinks and the leather couches
and the dim lamps. The light turned green.
I had to advance. Had to stop watching.
Had to slam my past back into my body.
Had to get home. Pull his mouth to mine.

Tongue touch him.