Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Two

Steve Klepetar

Kids Today

"It's not where we're going but where we've been," my neighbor says, "that hangs around us like a necklace made of rock," and hands me a beer. All morning we've gathered leaves, first his lot, then mine, till piles rise above our eyes and leaf dust glitters in the weakening sun. Sweating can cold in my hand but I'm not so sure, having shrugged off eight lives to stand just here in these faded jeans. Sipping beer makes him smile a touch, lilt of mustache and teeth, his wiry frame straining against this moment of rest. Out the back door his daughter takes off running, IPod hooked onto her sweats, headband pulling back her golden hair. She waves. "See that?" he says. "Half an hour just to get ready to run."