Young Love

 
When we passed the boy and girl 
on the muddy Stony Run path
that cold January day, he in shorts,
a mug of coffee in hand, 
she in her pajamas, slippers,
we remembered young love.

“I don't think I can go on,”
the girl's voice quavered, 
indicating her slippers,
the muddy path.

“I thought you'd put on your boots,”
the boy observed, almost as if
the girl were stupid.

What a prick, I thought.

“I wanted to show you the mourning doves,”
he pressed, as if a romantic soul.

We left them behind us, still arguing.
Not really an “argument,” 
but the tension was palpable,
a conflict of wills.

You took me here to see some fucking pigeons?
I imagined the girl saying,
putting the boy in his place.
At least it could have been a kingfisher, or pleated woodpeckers!
But fucking pigeons? PIGEONS! Really?

“That's a relationship that's not going to last,”
my wife commented 
when we were out of earshot.