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.
