Cherry Street
By Kevin MooreI 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.
Wow. Heartfelt. Sometimes, all we have of a person is a brief moment but that moment stays with us forever.
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