Deep hum of a low flying plane
against an empty sky,
it's a lovely buzz
seemingly only heard
in the backyards of suburbs.
Houses with L shaped pools
2 car garages,
poster covered rooms
and thumb tack pierced walls.
Quietly opened bedroom windows
let us out
and let in the night
straddling window panes
lit by moon rays and street lights
just to make it to the cul-de-sac.
Clandestine meetings with bad boys
or girls
sneaking cigarettes
while heavy handed vodka pours
provided fuel
for miles
of youthful mistakes.
Barefoot in a Smiths T-shirt
smelling of menthol smoke
summer night warmth
coming alive while the neighborhood slept.
We were naked in pools
that reflected the moon
crickets sang with the frogs.
we'd sing with them
interrupting their songs
until it was time
for late night TV
beckoning with open arms
and strobe light shadows against living room walls
nothing to do except
sleep until noon the next day.
I miss those days of irresponsibility and
no responsibility
Youth is wasted on the dumb
Sometimes I'll hear that hum
of a low flying plane
and it takes me back.
