Remember September?

I remember September.
I remember it rainy
with a chill in the air
that made everything run late.

I remember the lights flashing,
the road ahead blocked,
and a sprint to be on time.
Punctuality was important
that September.

I remember a sweater
I wore then,
and a denim jacket, and
that I carried an umbrella.

The place—I remember that too:
far from patch, cat, and lizard,
it had been touched by man,
flat concrete laid down twenty years past.

I remember September.
I remember my friend Jack
—only we called him Jack-of Hearts,
friendly and sublime.
I remember him climbing the Tree.
I remember him thrown away.

I remember the morning
and the rain
and how it dripped off my face,
the same rain that cleaned the concrete,
that washed away the blood.

I remember September.
I remember that I can’t remember,
that I can’t remember whether
it was gun or knife.

© 1994 Wayne Pitcher