I remember Kitty saying we shared a deep longing for 
the consolation prize, laughing as we rinsed the stagecoach.

I remember the night we camped out 
           and I heard her whisper 
“think of me as a place” from her sleeping bag 
           with the centaur print.

I remember being in her father’s basement workshop 
when we picked up an unknown man sobbing 
over the shortwave radio

and the night we got so high we convinced ourselves 
that the road was a hologram projected by the headlight beams.

I remember how she would always get everyone to vote 
on what we should do next and the time she said 
“all water is classic water” and shyly turned her face away.

At volleyball games her parents sat in the bleachers 
like ambassadors from Indiana in all their midwestern schmaltz.

She was destroyed when they were busted for operating 
a private judicial system within U.S. borders.

Sometimes I’m awakened in the middle of the night 
by the clatter of a room service cart and I think back on Kitty.

Those summer evenings by the government lake, 
talking about the paradox of multiple Santas 
or how it felt to have your heart broken.

I still get a hollow feeling on Labor Day when the summer ends

and I remember how I would always refer to her boyfriends 
as what’s-his-face, which was wrong of me and I’d like 
to apologize to those guys right now, wherever they are:

No one deserves to be called what’s-his-face.