Cigarettes are $6.00 in Phoenix, so, if you come here, make sure to stock up first. Here’s a narrative poem I wrote at some point.
I.
bursting into the hall—spilling chicken
wings, cold from refrigeration (you had
waited until midnight to be able
to eat them) and glossy with barbeque
and hot and hot-barbeque, tumbling out
of their cold white styrofoam togo box—
awkwardly tipsy from not knowing about
the dangers of flipping cups.
two doors close, both mine closing
and another…not scared. I,
up gathering the still good chicken,
and you, now acquainted with me, shared
your spoils, (I added my candy and grape-
juice). then you suggested by leaving the room
without me, that we ought to go in search
of higher things—and I not having a
cellular device, brought my cordless-land-phone
instead. you showed me a building’s roof,
the Pleiades, and a quivered starfish
you found at Neptune’s beach, New Jersey.
we burst into the world together now,
our auspicious friendship.
II.
The next nine months we spent it together.
And once we awoke we saw the vision.
And when our spirits got low,
We raised each other up, and in joyous times
I raised you higher. That is what friends do.
III.
You never thanked me, until you did
Not chop off my hands—you had tied them
—with a hatchet.
IV.
you shiny plastic piece of
; and you pulling me through the window,
to gently tap my cheek with your knuckles.
V.
chicken wings, both drunk, the building rooftop.
it is gone, all is gone, for what?
it’s not gone, said, not gone entirely.
but, trust me, it’s gone, and I want a why.
because seeing that vision has crushed us.
Wow. This was highly pleasant to read. I wish I had seen it in real life and the IR chapbook. My favorite part is the up-gathering of the chicken wings. The poem lacks, however, the moment when Dido leaves, crying into something akin to a bucket of the all new Kentucky Grilled Chicken, which looks surprisingly delish. That could be an helpful addition.