_ He'll Never Know I Wrote Him a Poem _



He parked his pickup in the front lawn, Indiana style

Four of us sat in back, under blankets,

mostly to keep warm, and

partly because it was the closest thing to privacy we ever got

I was just so slightly braver under the blanket.



I can't remember what we talked about,

or maybe, being the quiet one,

I just put my hands in his pockets to stay warm

And then I would play with the long hairs that stuck

out of the baseball cap he never took off

brushing the back of his neck barely on purpose

So I could hear him suck in his breath,



And if he did keep the hat off for an entire night once,

after showing up soaking wet,

with an appropriate story to tell,

that would've been a special moment I'm sure.



I do remember the stories, he told,

always with a sense of humor,

'God has a sense of humor,' he said once,

being a July boy with cancer.



He took me to the river one night.

I never told him we'd met once before.

He'll never know I wrote him a poem.