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.