Litkicks Message Board Archive

doreen

Posted to Action Poetry




you ditched me for the coffee selling guy
the first time you rode the Staten Island Ferry
you and your visting brother taking a tour of the sister boroughs
when you came back you announced we were through and it was only April
not that long since all the way from Des Moines you promised me as we drove through January
when we got stuck in the snow in Ohio
you yelled at me for slipping up, so I got out and pushed
the first day we moved into our apartment house in Queens
you blew up at me and threw my stuff out the window and on the ground, next to the knocked over trash bins
our neighbors peeking through cracked doorways, smirking
at fools in love
you said you loved me and no other, I remember you promised me that things would only get better
and I guess they did for you
but still, it was my apartment anyway, why should I be the one to get out?
It was my deposit
It was my dream you stole
I was the big time writer in Manhatten
getting paid to be a mailboy for a large, let's leave it unsaid, major publication
you were getting bored with me already I could tell
in the grocery aisle we argued over peas, you wanted lentils
we stopped taking the train together into the city
sometimes you never came home at night
so when you came back from the ferry I felt it already
I knew I would be the one to leave
even though it was really my apartment
I was no angel, I smoked pot and you liked to drink
you busted up my insides like a crushed cardboard box
and shipped me out
the warning I was fragile upside down
and wounded in the rain
so I moved to the Upper West Side
way up high
118th & Claremont
Riverside drive
Grant's tomb
Harlem
where every morning
I would have to step over the homeless guy on the stoop
and the needles and the broken crack vials
where at night I would be lulled by the romantic echo of gunfire
I got used to the midnight siren wails
in June you called me up
and begged me to come over
so I took the N train and rode the rails to you
walking up to you, you smiled at me from the second story window
that bitter familiar streethouse
you were drinking wine and tears were falling down
you sweet-talked me into it again and we made mad love
and then you told me you had gotten pregnant and then aborted
that's when I started crying
and you started yelling
calling me stupid and telling me
the baby wasn't mine
it was the Staten Island Ferry guy's
and you kicked me out again
years later
you called me up in my new town
and coaxed me into my car
my fingers drumming on the steering wheel
you were at your mother's
come on down, you said
you said I was the biggest regret
in your life
and you weren't going to lose me again
so I started up the car and started driving
the exact opposite direction from you
I'm still driving there today