When she gets in touch, and the sound of her voice
has me all lost in the high school cafeteria
where we stalked Tom B & his wavy pompadour.
She’s been in a wheelchair since ’94
and I’m all lost in Friday nights, red lipstick
swiped from our moms. We gawked at Tom
and his band in camo pants, covering The Clash.
Her hips shimmied low, arms pumping
as if she might bust through the glass doors
of our high school and race into the night
singing, I live by the river.

I think of her wheeling through the supermarket,
mid-40s like me, the Toms of our lives
gone. Our children and grocery lists.
And I’m losing it. There couldn’t have been
gel-covered spots on Tom but I swear
he stood in a pool of pink light.
The way she pressed against the stage
until the last song, hoping he would look.
We were fourteen and the silence when the band
packed their gear made us lonely, so we sang
as our parents drove us home
Yo te querda, oh ma corazón.