brutal youth
I’ve tried to forget
that part of my life
most of it was the drudgery
of counting other people’s cash
sneaking a poem
onto the back
of a checking deposit slip
while the coin counter chugged
and clanked at the end of the room
my shoes were falling apart
I remember the backs were coming off
a fact I tried to conceal
by walking only when necessary
the tape deck in my car still worked
so I played Elvis Costello’s
Juliet Letters and Brutal Youth
again and again and again
imagining myself on stage
a far cry from a teller’s window
most days I’d drive home for lunch
ramen noodles, blue corn chips
and a glass of Wegmans root beer
dinners were usually stir fry or calzones
stuffed with cheese and pepperoni
the two saving graces were
the poetry readings at Java’s
and Wendy from the bookstore
at Java’s I felt like I might do more
than just balance a register forever
with Wendy, I thought I might find more
than just another good friend
*
you can only count other people’s money
for so long before it drives you mad
so one morning, as the sun was coming up
I packed everything I owned
into my tiny black car
pointed it toward the west
drove away
not because I didn’t love her
but because I needed saving
and the desert was my only hope
twenty years on I’ve forgotten
most of what happened back then
I can’t remember names
I can barely remember faces
but I still remember her holding my hands
in the parking lot
and I regret not kissing her goodbye
8 February 2013
Auburn, AL
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