That summer
we shared the house
across the tracks
with the peeling linoleum and no AC
and you wore red pleather boots
and you were fabulous
and you had just been diagnosed
with that disease
that people were starting to talk about.
I walked home after the dinner shift
my pockets stuffed with cash
past the vacant lot
through the broken glass
beneath the overpass
and on the hottest nights
we churned butter-brickle ice cream
on a front porch that sloped
down and down so far
that just standing still
felt like falling.

 

 

First published in Broken Plate, 2014