At the Bottom of the Everclear
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she asks if we can listen to So Much for the Afterglow
and cook pasta out of a steamer bag…like we used to
do in college …back to beginnings of a fat romance.
We grow out of songs and shirts …we pretend that odd
feeling in our guts isn’t the hurt that comes with the
comfort. I noticed my hair starting to thin during the
winter I tried to grow it again …I noticed the holes in
my belt moving in reverse …what was tight is now loose.
Sometimes she calls me the absolute worst like when
I elected to follow her grandfather’s hearse instead of
riding with her in the limo, jockeying her purse. I just
wanted some of my own music …something to place me
in that moment. And her mom’s lipstick scowl…her dad’s
furrowed bushy-brow…her brother’s crossed arms and sunk
shoulders all let me know that all was lost in an instant.
People say my poems have gotten better since I met her…
I say my poems have gotten better because I keep more in.
When it’s time to let go, it’s a shot put throw into a shallow,
rocky lake. “My daddy gave me a name…then he walked away.”
