by Becca Yenser
This time with Natives, not my old bougie choice
Of American Spirits. I took up nail polish
In Millennial Pink. I started mixing Sangria
I went to work and dipped in and out of lives,
Looked at grandchildren peering out from wallets;
I touched the shoulder of a man who drinks
Elevated IPAs like he might die tomorrow.
He might die tomorrow.
He waits for the bus and stumbles outside.
I was supposed to help him remember,
But I got hypnotized by
Chelsea Wolfe, that haunting:
“How many years have I been sleeping?”
But who listens to lyrics anymore?
I give him a bag of Lay’s. I pat him
On the shoulder. Softly, softly
Driving home from the bar with
Depeche Mode on, I can finally
Hear my own tires taking me
Home. Not anywhere I want to be.
Not up in the mountains, where high
Prairie flowers break your heart
One by one. Too delicate.
Was everything on Earth built to fail?
A couple show me a video of a baby
Learning to talk. We laugh. As I turn
To wash the glasses, the detergent
Slides up my arms. It burns. “I’ll
Cry later,” I think, “Yes, that’s when.”