Come next cherry blossom blossom,
they say, the Tidal Basin will brim

and flood the monuments. Imagine
water in the buckle-bronze

shoes of Jefferson. The ghosts
of the incarcerated Japanese-

Americans piloting skiffs
over Roosevelt’s head. Even

Reagan’s scars under a foot
of the flood that dwarfed

the banks of Mt. Vernon.
We never came here

on our escapes from your
semi-ex, but I remember

the day you stopped
in your VW bug and worked

me dry at an intersection,
one foot on the brake

while you lipped and jacked
my tallywhacker. How I miss that old easy

ardor, how we fell,
sometimes four times a day.

into the tumble of steals
and bases, the leather

glove of your hand suppled
with your spit,

your shy eye always
coming to when I blinked.