I showed her my old paper route,
pointed out
the decent tippers,
stopped where as a boy,
I’d soiled myself in the cold.
I bought two Dr. Peppers
with quarters I had rescued
at the customary corner,
watched sloshing snow pants run away.
In nakedness I licked my finger,
covered her eyes,
turned the page.
There on Main she had all her fun: played
Old Maid with every face,
every name,
harkened back embellished
journal entries I had once shared.
There she wept
naming childhood greats
she’d only read about
painted on the cobblestone streets
wishing she’d seen more than their widows,
attended church and not a funeral.
The labels I used are illegible now,
peeled; written small and the smiling
g’s just keep creasing,
mislead.
Handshakes tape her in where they can.
“Yes, I’d very much like you to meet...”
my friends and friends emeritus,
blurred together in briskening aperture.
Pseud
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