fleeting memories of a sun dressed 1982 volvo
sitting in saturday traffic on the south shore.

wearing sunglasses from 1965
and
a smile.

friend requests from south dakota
tattooed to my elbow
in the shape of a park bench
overrun by meth heads
and
love.

text messages about shoulders
and
chicken pickles
and
fear.

i walk into a cloud of smoke
and out of my parent's living room.

i take shallow breathes
and
choke back the warm tears
that have become misplaced in my throat.

the air conditioner hums
a song about fake comfort.
while
i dream about being back in a tent
on agnes island.
with the bugs.
the rain.
the dead cellphone.
the escape.


i sweat through a poetry reading
ignoring a crazy woman with pink hair
to face everything i've ever wanted
in
the
wide
world.