Trestle

Two seperate occasions. The first one, in spring of '04. The train trestles at McCulloch (No, I am not a gay guy.) were our playground, the spillway our resting place. We walked back and forth, explored the woods that they have since cleared. Few things are so empty and barren as a clearcut spot where you have specific memories of trees. We got our mocha cocoa lattes and drank them on the concrete bank, hidden from cars less than ten feet away, people driving unaware, by pure love, one of the main reasons humanity exists. We made intellectual love with words, we sang Tom Waits. We were complete, whole, and content.

The other occasion. We ate mushroom chocolates, and walked the two blocks to New York Street. We hustled in a sideways intoxicated manner, trying to get there before the fireworks started. We eyeballed the disused train trestle. Finding the inescapable dirt trail leading up to the top, stepping over empty hobo nests, ratty blankets and empty MD 20/20 bottles. We went to the edge, where the raining had fallen down, and sat with our legs dangling off. We could see the BankOne tower, where they launched the fireworks from. We were in love, but I was all ready tainted by doubt, running the beads of the fuck-it rosary through my fingers.

I've squandered