it’s real

that sensation that starts at the fingers of a forgotten friend and finds its way through you, holding hands wishing the sway would turn to a grasp and lead to rolling in freshly watered grass, overcoming discomfort in the name of passion, spontaneity

finding buttons and zippers to undo and divide, blissfully panting, newfound pride found in rhythmic pulses leading to shouts of freedom, letting go of every inhibition, primal yelps breaking neighborhood night silence in a park down the street from where our parents lived

and once loved

they had fake smiles and handshakes, birthday parties and shared steaks sizzling on wedding present grills pouring friday night puffs of community into styrofoam streets

neighbor coveted neighbor coveted neighbor, swapping stares as sundresses flipped up while planting perennials along front lawn borders, a tasteful fence

fears were multiplied when we started to subdivide and ran away from what made us great

what’s real?

the feel of coming back to plastic childhood haunted backyards, and parading in twenty year old libido with the next door pigtails you always wanted