Throw me a box of red pushpins, he said.
Throw a map up on the wall
Here, there and so on and so on
The bus stop at Fourth and Maple- even though she does not ride busses
Mike's all night diner, where she ate 6 pieces of rye toast at 4am (did not, she said)
The West city softball fields, the railroads tracks south of town
A box full of pins is not enough
the map is not wide enough
No memory is good enough
There are hundreds of moments
perhaps even thousands
He only cares about two:
South city library (the first glance)
The Salvation army store (a certain couch, a stolen kiss)
You can keep the map, he said.
Even closing my eyes, I can find my way back without it.