Making You His Girl

each closet you filled up
with cardboard, a mess of cigarette
boxes, a lot of old golf score cards
speckled with tobacco juice, and a
lonesome condom,
split in half, useless
now but once a big joke
you’d flash at your mom
as you left home on
some guy’s motorcycle.

don’t think I wasn’t
watching, hiding in the barn,
wondering who the heck
was making you his girl, down each
night by the pond, letting
him touch you,
flashing that smile of
yours, grinning while he loosened
your bra and tossed it
in the water.

skinny-dipping ain’t
no fun to watch, and your
eyes told me more than
you knew each morning
at the bus stop.