On Driving Home After Swimming in June

If it turns out that the plan doesn’t work for me
and I end up living alone in a
house shrouded by too many shade trees
with dead plants in the window boxes
and an antique coffee table
covered in dark ringed stains,
it won’t mean anything,
because who cares at 72 if I didn’t use a coaster
the last time I had tea?
Who other than me would even see any of it?
I won’t give a damn,
as long as I still remember
squeezing our heads out of the car window
on 22, goggles covering our eyes, teary
from laughing until it came out as silence,
at the reactions of the few drivers
who were awake enough to witness
such a display of friendship
and such a unknown knowledge
of just how many things there are that aren’t important
like coffee rings on antique tables.