She strolled over my notebook
with a pretty hand.

I watched the back of her ear
as it moved up and down in her
brown hair.

She smiled as she looked up,
resting the pen on the bar.

I asked her to read it to me,
she said no then excused
herself to go find a smoke.

She came back and called me
sweetheart, asking for a hug.

Hugs reserved for big brothers and
funny uncles.

Why not this old tricycle
instead of breaking in
a new toy?

The old ones
with the sharp corners
are still the best.
No matter how rusty.