for it didn't mean much

I remember kissing the girl
not my wife
I didn’t know her
yet
though I’d learn
months later we’d met
around a guitar on some grass

But I remember kissing the girl
I knew but not too well
for who do you really know
at seventeen

But I kissed her anyway
though I don’t remember how to
spell her name
with an “e” somewhere
I think

a few of us knew
she kept the ultrasound
of her baby in her purse
the one that waste
put in her belly
like he did to the other girl
which she aborted, too
and finished the best
friendship he ever had

But I kissed her anyway
because I knew I could
and I knew it wouldn’t mean
much
in that moment
under the small pavilion on the beach
the one across the way
where the trouble kids smoked and
spat their nicotine on the cement

the sun hung somewhere to the right
maybe one o’clock
the two foot lagoon waves sighed
not fifty feet away
as she held a photo
not the one from her purse
but one I wanted
though I don’t remember which
she held away from me
I reached past her and grabbed it
my face just inches from hers
oh how she smelled
of dime-store perfume
and unconsummated dreams
her smile
coquettish and challenging
I knew in that moment I could

So I did

and for the briefest moment
her lips slackened against mine
in surprise?
in repulsion?
no, in surprise
though it couldn’t have
surprised her much
for her lips found their strength
and grabbed back
if only for a moment

I leaned away and saw her
feign shock and smile
through gaping mouth

What else to do
but pick up my bicycle
and pedal away

for it didn’t mean much