Terms of Agreement
       

The man who described himself as a contemporary American novelist
in his biography for the Nextdoor neighbors forum hasn't mowed a blade

of his lawn since May, but who cares about that when there are cost-
effective generics to assess, easements to criticize, balking about frontage

which makes nobody else recall nights in the Winchester Mall overflow
lot, the one never used because there were never crowds. Oh, the fronting

executed there. I briefly showed a class a snapshot of some jeans noted
in a poem (I once owned a pair) and my evaluations shuddered. However

we soon moved on to discussing fates of wild horses, which banished
all memories of distressed denim. The woman who typed "HI" in response

to the heated discussion of chipmunk proliferation, or the headstrong
babysitter who uploaded a pic of herself eating two ice cream cones at once:

instantly forgotten. None of them knew I was surrounded by couch
cushions, regarding a sepia portrait of a cherished ex like it was newfound

currency. Back then I had a vague notion that fifteen years later we
would be separated by amateur divorces and lactose intolerance and miles.

Warmed by the heat of our respective pit bulls, we would hang on to
imaginary lockets while reading (again) Cold Mountain, like it was secretly

the story of us. But the real story was why the intersection of Rhoades
and Maple was flooding. Perhaps the new mini strip mall, or illegal dumping,

which is how you described it when I dropped my big salad and ghosted
contrary to the terms of our agreement, which were written in gross cursive.

Sometimes I yearn to fill out the rest of my bio, but right now it's mostly
symbols: a wave, a skull, a shark, a daisy that might look nice behind an ear.

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Copyright © 2020 Mary Biddinger All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission