A DOZEN YEARS

It has been
a dozen years
since your childhood bike
stood
leaning against your garage,
rusting.

While
we played on the grass
of the lawn,
pretending to be ninjas,
throwing coathangers that were twisted
and tied to yarn
at trees, as grappling hooks.

You kissed me
beneath that same tree
in a pink frilly dress
and claimed later
that I kissed you first.

Years later,
we are still friends,
and you wear your hair in tresses,
but I miss the days when we,
Charlie, and Jon,
were all a group of friends.