Late Delivery.

I owe you a poem,
because it’s been two years and two months
and I barely wrote that summer.
So here, take this—it’s still damp from night swimming in the Sound,
its eyes are narrow and blood shot and all it wants is sleep
but your body is next to it in the car
and just the sight of you is like too much caffeine.
This poem has sand down its pants,
thick white stones and broken bits of shells.
This poem will drive home shirtless with the Postal Service playing quietly in the background.
This poem should have been written two years ago, I can feel
it sagging from not enough air.
But I’ll empty my lungs for it, sacrifice some oxygen,
bring that summer back to life.
The jellyfish, keg beer, and so many crosswords,
you always had to do them in pencil didn’t you?
This poem is covered in cobwebs and dust,
far away from the both of us now.