I think you said, “I love you.” Sharing a coke on a hard park bench. Just one for us both, because you owed $4,000 to the IRS. July sun had fried my arms to bacon, But the grass around our bench bloomed Irish green. Husky and soft, I thought you said, “I love you.” But then your phone rang, And afterward, I was afraid to ask. That was our finest moment. For Christmas, you wouldn’t let me help you trim your tree. New Year’s Eve – no call, no party. Valentine’s Day I made you fancy brownies. You ate them all, then asked, “Did you want one?” On your birthday you borrowed ten dollars, And never paid it back. Yes, that July day was our perfect moment. But still, I’ll always wonder what you really said.