Back to school,
Dad’s bought us MetroCards,
a note lying on top of them:
Happy second semester!
I crumple it into a ball,
leave it on the kitchen counter.
April and I fight
the white wind
to 86th Street.
On the bus
she begs me to listen to her.
I say no,
she shouldn’t have told,
no, she shouldn’t get her hopes up.
I don’t say
it’ll be worse this way.
If she gets excited about it,
if she hopes for the impossible,
it could crush her.
Dylan slides in next to me,
smelling more like soap than cigs,
humming a Beastie Boys song,
drumming the rhythm on my knee.
He can tell the air’s frozen between April and me,
tries to bend it with song.
I don’t give in,
there’s no way out now.
The snow falls heavier
as we land on Park,
shuffle to the door,
fresh white snow covering
what’s already gray.