Saturday, April 8, 2017

High School is Forever



I’m thirty-five and sleeping with the student body president.

He went to law school and took tests while

I dropped acid and danced

To blinking lights in foreign lands where glass cut

The dance floor before the bar flared up in balls of flames.


We were dead to each for twenty years until

We hit the hometown together,

Wasting time judging the dashboard flexing figurines

Of friends who stayed behind to live

The complacent lives we ran

From in opposite directions.

Time and time we reminded ourselves,

We’re only tourists here, just visiting.

Our drivers’ licenses bared different zip codes

Than our birth certificates. We were winning.

He was living on an island under Guam,

Squashed in an office with two secretaries, his home

The government sanctioned blessing for

Unfruitful bachelors looking to move their lonely lives abroad.

I was bleeding Austin sweat and multiple texts from

Uninteresting men and marriages with part-time custody

Of the only two decisions I'll never regret.


Now we live together in a house

With worn rugs stained yellow in places,

Housewarming presents from an elderly cat that has

Taken a liking to the man who made a more honest

Woman out of her owner.

I stay domesticated, and his trivia winning—

Not always the kissing finish. But

The picture of similarity, no. He plays computer

Games while cancer and I have another meeting--outside,

Even when it’s freezing.

My drinking to him is heavy, I ask for tips on

Spelling, we come and go at a pace he finds

Unsafe but I find endearing.

—Erin Passons, 4-2014
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