If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine...

Asher Dob

Asher Dob,
I didn't know you,

but there were all those after-midnight, drunken rides home
with all the windows down, sucking July's saturated air
between drags off Marlboros shedding the hot orange
of before-dead ash sucked into the sober black
coffee sky like intermittent distress flares

and thinking
I fooled them all,

the stoner guys,
the coke-head girls
all gathered 'round
a forever foaming keg

but not you, Asher Dob,

you saw through me,
the periphery of me
standing at awkward angles,
forever on the outside
looking in, aloof, aberrant

with one dismissive glance -

beyond the summer sweat
of fresh faced teenage skin,
through the humid haze
of Thai stick-hash oil smoke

- across a crowded, claustrophobic
suburban, finished-basement,

the instant after I flubbed the opening lines
of The Dead's Ripple.

I didn't know you
Asher Dob,
but you knew me.