Every Time I Drive By

Every time I drive pass Roosevelt Park, 
I think about forgetting you.
In that long forgotten corner
not far from the parking lot, 
the basketball courts, and the lake,
we had our picnic.
I forget exactly what I did and didn't do--
eating, chatting, sitting, walking,
but what I really want to forget 
is your presence in that picnic
in the vicinity of weather beaten benches and rusty grills.
When I was drinking from a plastic cup,
I thought about you several feet away.
When I was listening to a piece of news,
my mind was all about you--
where you were, what you were doing, 
what you were thinking,
what kind of person you are, 
how different you are from me,
how cute and naive you are,
how you smile with those boyish lines of joy.
I felt you smiled just for me, but 
I knew you probably wouldn't listen to me.
Something told me that you want to live a life
independent of women,
in your own way.
I remember you,
the way you tilt your head,
you stiff your neck and shoulder,
more endearing with the passage of time,
with each attempt to forget you.