when I hear Mr. Jones now, I feel a layer of wintered needles
cushioning sandaled foot steps ’round the Pinery roads’s
rocky patches. when the park ranger pickup turned the curve
we would hide the hidden Molson dry up a hoodie sleeve.
the forest edge lit by lanterns in almost June still had a chill
blanketed by girls’ smiles from towns I’ve never visited.
we’d meander, back to a fire, friends, voices, someone playing
a guitar’s fairy tale from a picnic table – she’s singing to you/
I don’t think so/ she’s looking at me/ smiling in the firelight/
I made myself a silver sleeve/ when everybody loved me
I wanted to be, just about as lonely as I could be.
Note: part of the last line in stanza four and the last two stanzas are based on lyrics of the song Mr. Jones by the Counting Crows