Red Robin


for Jillian

We sat in a corner booth
in a Red Robin,
watching cars in the rain.
And the river, dark and muddy,
wouldn’t stop it.
And the sunset, those days,
bleeding into the sky like a soldier,
couldn’t do a thing.

Only me and my hands,
still unsure where to hold you,
as we ate French fries,
and you told me the story
about cutting the grass
in your grandmother’s floppy hat.

I remember, we walked
through the brown earth
to get there, because
my car
was still broken,
and later, you woke
in early evening from a nap,
rubbing your eyes.

I thought
that you would stay —
that we would watch as the snow left,
and the mosquitoes came back.