Arrivals. Kisses. Midnight knocks on doors.
Cassy in thick black boots. Her big green eyes,
her coat thrown on my mattress on the floor
when she showed up at ten, her friends in thrift store
slips and ties, the dusty walk up steps alive
with greetings, kisses, midnight knocks on doors,
and trips downstairs for mixers. Back then we wore
our Dickies low, brought six packs, secrets, bags of ice
cradled in coats later discarded on the floor.
The kitchen: candlelit and humming with the lure
of gossip. How we stirred vodka, juice, and lime
for late arrivals, kissed at midnight, propped the door
and climbed the ladder to the roof seconds before
sunrise to lounge on rusty metal chairs, the sky
no longer black, our coats abandoned on the floor
below while up above we hugged and swore
to meet at noon for coffee, breakfast, and advice
on rivals, kisses, midnight knocks on doors,
Cassy asleep on just my mattress on the floor.
-- Emily Moore