Satellites

When I was at that club called The Heat

All blinding lights and booming music

Florence + The Machine was playing

And for the first time, a man

took my hand, danced with me

kissed me on the mouth in front of everyone

 

My first cigarette

Running down to the river

Getting caught up in tall grass

And sapling trees

Inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly

Through my nose like French girls

In the movies

I couldn’t stop coughing

 

But these memories

The ones I remember

So vividly

What do they mean

Why are they so important

That time on the defensive line

The guy across was twice my size

How was that possible

He knocked me down

Next time, a well-placed elbow

Just below the ribs

Right into the diaphragm

The first time I really

Wanted to hurt someone

 

I saw him in those jeans

The faded whitewash ones

A rip in the knee

They make his butt look great

I wanted to be those jeans

And always kiss his bronze ass

I don’t want to lose these memories

I want to keep these moments

In a bottle forever

But I don’t know why

McLeary’s Irish Pub in Boston

With its framed pencil drawings of Joyce

The night I found out how bitter Guinness is

And after a few drinks

I found out that the quiet girl from school

Had so many beautiful things to say

About literature, about art, about life

That night I was convinced

To climb all the way up

Enchanted Rock

To watch a meteor shower

There was no meteor shower

We sat with our backs against each other

For hours, we only saw satellites pass overhead


Justin Rogers is an aspiring poet. He resides in the Texas Hill Country where he works at an art gallery.