Meth.

We're halving cow chips in '02 in the yard of your parent's parent's farm

Cutting the bullshit

Your dad inherited it and your mother is dead or left when you were 3.

There's a stale trampoline before the porch that Bob will vomit schnapps on in six years and I don't masturbate yet.

I get you and John confused sometimes. We don't smoke cigarettes.

You beat the shit out of that dog and cry when a truck doesn't stop.

I can't hold you forever.

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Misplaced souvenirs.

A pile of paper scraps to

remind her of something she was once

– a museum go-er, a concert

participant, a

lone train traveler wedged between the two

youngest children from a family of five. Her cache

of carefully kept stubs and flyers.

Displaced artifacts and

forced memories and the assurance of

This is where you’ve been.

My father stole 300 napkins from the Waldorf.

He packed them safely into his suitcase

and brought them home for his family to use at

mealtime.

My mother couldn’t imagine her husband of

25 years alone on the hotel’s double bed or

stuffing thick paper napkins with gold dragons

and lettering into the folds of his khaki pockets.

But I am not interested in them;

so remind me of who I was

once. Describe the person I was when you

were no longer around.

Maybe

there is a polyester dress and black tights,

with one large hole running along the

inner left thigh, underneath. And shoes:

one or two pairs in neon canvas you can imagine

me, on the streets of Paris, wearing. And the backdrop:

a sweet smell of fresh bread and cigarette smoke.

Crumbling concrete, piled trash and

the unapologetic traffic that refuses to

halt for the figure

only you remember.