picnic benches

halfway to santa cruz my parents sat highway one
or years ago, in north pasadena
L and I sitting under a trellis picturing holes in people we knew
hands like jackets
what did they want us to say to woods
or wood carved scars
in a brain
or my side
go ahead, put your hand in

that night I lost my shoes
ran barefoot bleeding
trying to time the broken white lines in the road
each one a cooler white I wouldn’t remember later
a german shepherd chased me for a couple blocks
ripped my jeans casually
like doctors
who can
who will

before the running I stood on top of the table
swung myself up on the trellis
across the park I saw a couple fucking up against a tree
never telling L what I’d seen
or my parents still sitting there in heavy jackets
waves turning over
facing away from me as I walked towards them
the only ones I own