Old Poetry

Yoe, Pennsylvania

When we were eighteen,

the abandoned cigar factory in the village of Yoe

proved worthy of a Wednesday night’s entertainment

so we drove three loud cars into the back parking lot

of a building that time had forgotten

as the market shifted

from smoking rooms to radio rooms

to TV rooms in what seemed

like a few months time.

We went in, through a broken glass door on the side

that had been hastily boarded up

and warned NO TRESPASSING and no one cared.

Inside, things creaked and wires hung from the ceiling

and the only light came from our flickering dim flashlights

and the full moon outside.

There were puddles of oil on the floor,

and shredded newspapers reading 1954.

While Deddick and Dengy and Dyl

started throwing around boxes

and climbing paper bale mountains,

I envisioned cops with tasers breaking down

the door with the smashed window

and hauling us off to jail.

While you could have persuaded me otherwise,

or told me to relax and quit being so paranoid,

you said we could go outside if it would ease my mind,

so we stood guard by the door

and for once we were alone

in the bright moonlight of Yoe.

You stood with your back against the weed woods

and I with my back against the cinderblock building.

I said are you scared? and you replied no

even though it was nearing Halloween.

You wanted to kiss me,

I could see it in your eyes.

But being eighteen was hard

and we stood there like eighth graders

at a junior high dance,

arms folded awkwardly, looking down,

and then into each other’s eyes,

talking about adventure,

and calculus,

and what it might feel like to be in each other’s arms.