Sunday, after church,
we walk to Jon's
and buy lemons
to slice and squeeze
into aros caldo.

We had stared
at a stream
carry ice into
a gutter and
had decided
we needed an
excuse to light
the kitchen stove.

I put my hands into
my coat pockets
and you and I
make knots
when we walk
arm in arm,
the incense from
our Sunday clothes
mixing with
gasoline and cigarettes,
and these lemons

make me remember
something you wrote
back when we wore
uniforms and referrals
like soldiers instead
of delinquents,
and you look at
me like you had
the first time,
with Ms. Maine,
during passing period,
shy, curious, and most
of all, worried, because
even now, we have
problems and ourselves
and these lemons to share.

So we pass by a
Winchell's donut
display and in the
window we blend
with salty pretzels
in our beige coats.
We stop and make
faces at ourselves
until a name patch
called Lola
slants her
eyes and spits
at us and we
disappear, grinning.