Cherry Street

By Kevin Moore

 

I took her home

to the small white house with the blue trim

around the windows,

just off Cherry Street.

Her mother wouldn’t be home

for hours.

There’s a first time for everything

I thought to myself

as I wiped my sweaty palms

across the backside of my faded jeans.

I could blame it on first time jitters

I suppose.

I put on some Marvin Gaye

That’s a little cliché,

she said with a giggle

while taking off her bra.

It was mind-blowing,

that’s how I put it.

She thought interesting was more fitting.

I guess sex can be interesting, does that mean it was bad?

Whatever,

it was still special for both of us

I think.

 

 

I saw her once more after that night

in the third column of the

Kelly Caldwell, age 19

struck by a drunk driver

on her way to

Silver Bay, Minnesota.

She was going to see her Dad.

What a terrible way to die.

I often think about her

and that night.

When I took her home

to that small white house

with the blue trim

around the windows,

just off Cherry Street.