You Get to Missing
       

In Baltimore for example, the black
tar and the blacktop.
The gulls fly in from
the Inner Harbor, and
me, I'm dirt-broke and drunk
from the raunchy odor of all of us
baking in our skins,
potato people. Me, I'm all sundress
and beehive, but hon, stop
making fun of the Mid-Atlantic
states. Bands of adolescents
jump on a mattress left in the
middle of the road; me, I waggle
my hips everywhere
I strut. Me, I verge and swizzle in
a place where anybody could go so far
as to say hello just because your boots
look fine. Someone convinces me
to try crack, which I don't
end up liking, and it's not possible to
get the shell out of crab
cakes, but me, I enjoy
the good crunch. A classmate
from art school is mortified. Mugged
by children, he says. Just kids.
Just kids. Me, I leave
in a car driven by a friend
of a friend of a friend
who curates a collection of
bright Hawaiian shirts and
has perfect teeth and
now I live in exile.

Tweet
Copyright © 2016 Cady Vishniac All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission