Dark Street By Trish Saunders

Where are you tonight, Sharon, Leslie, Jo? It’s Friday night, I remember you, 

so you exist, still in your mother’s Chevy

slowly rolling past the house of a boy 

we all like with dark eyes

and parents known

 to be seldom home. 

Sharon, stop the car under a big walnut tree 

on Sycamore Ave., pass a bottle 

of Jimmie (Beam) back to Jo; her father 

will never miss it, she thinks. 

I would rather smoke weed with Dark Eyes,

and I know he has some, 

but his house is silent, no mutt barks 

from the yard. And how long

will we sit there in darkness 

willing him to come outside

with his dangerous eyes, 

the moon so close 

you could climb a tree,  

break off a piece and throw it

Trish Saunders lives in the Pacific Northwest, her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Book of Matches, Chiron Review, Pacifica Poetry Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, Eunoia, The Galway Review, and Four Feathers Anthology.