if i could only write one good
poem
it would be about when we went
south
and the humidity of
the middle part
of alabama
how it did fog up
my glasses in
just seconds
it would be about how i felt like
a stowaway
the whole time i knew you
a small puppy hidden under
your bed
and when we got to golf shores
i felt the foreboding of
being set free
by your sullen parents
in this, the best of my poems
i would remember and in detail
explain the last moment we
spoke
in person
but only the beach remains
that
sunbleached afternoon
walking barefoot and
the new freckles
i would fall between
and i would end the poem
very poignantly
and much before i spent a week
at my grandmother’s
in ocala
far from home
vomiting out religiously
all the sickness i had
endured.
the sieve and the sand 
This was an interesting execution of a poem-memory. It reminded me of the illusionist in William Goldman’s novel Magic, who performed an entire routine while pretending to explain to his audience how he would have done it if he were to impress them.
You created a finely sketched picture, and it has a vibe of a friend telling me intimately and comfortably all about it. 🙂