centerfold.

We had settled on riding the city limits.

Passing the old playground

where we first

saw a picture of a naked lady.

We were content

with the silent treatment

until we got home.

This whole experience should have been better.

“Remember that song?

Remember this?

Remember that?

Remember when we all

went to the end of the year dance

and we all got drunk and

Amy and Mark got lost in the woods

behind the gymnasium?”

Memory lane carries a toll, and some of us have over paid.

I remember that picture of a naked girl,

how Mark swiped it

from his brother’s collection

of flesh colored treasures

that was kept in secret places in his brother’s room.

We once got yelled at for sneaking about 

looking for his also secret collection of baseball cards.

Hiding away the past is a learned behavior.

I remember being unsure how to react

and the look on most of our faces

told me, I wasn’t alone.

We hooted and hollered,

mimicking the reactions

we’d seen on television.

Her pose

persuading flaccid penises

and the hidden ejaculations

accomplished only

fragile embarrassment

and the act of

rivaled excitement

that told nothing

of her talents.

Children caught in the act of pre-designed lust.

dead letters for living people

josephmcabral.com