“Do you even care?”

If I squint, the streetlamp looks like
a daffodil.
This time, he wrote a list.
This time his voice cracks.

          What can I say?

My legs are too long
for your passenger seat
           or
I forget about water
I’ve left boiling on the stove
more often than I remember
how wholly I broke you
           or
Of course I care
           or
You’ve grown so thin
           or
No
          or
I avoid your name
like a pothole, like bitter wine
           or
You were never this thin
           or
I cannot forgive you for loving me
           or
I don’t know
           or
Thin as sandpaper, as cobwebs,
as December wind
through the dying grapevines

This time he wrote a letter.
He is drinking coffee.
It will keep him up all night.

           Do I care?

“If I squint, the streetlamp looks like
a daffodil.”

This is not a town for the young.
I hate this place, they say,
meaning I am drenched in inertia and
made nauseous by so many familiar
faces and my blood is made of cheap beer
and repetitions of old jokes that are
no longer funny. I have to get out of here,
they say, meaning I don’t know how.
Their parents meant well. To them
valley walls spoke sanctuary, spoke
promise, called out that beautiful scenery
meant a beautiful life so they rushed
into the emerald embrace. Grapevines
break through the soil twisted,
noble, thirsty. The young toss and turn
in their sleep but don’t have the words for it.
The young learn honesty in the arms
of whiskey and smoke, in the haze
of unaccountability. Plastic cups stack high
in garages. Nice dress, they say, meaning
It’ll be gone in an hour. Let’s play
another round, they say, meaning Pride
must be found somewhere. The ones that left
come back to an army of summer days
marching in place. Smoky rooms
welcome them home, discreetly
erase the past few months. They look
at their best friend and grow dizzy
wondering how someone can be so old
and so new all at once. I love you, they say,
meaning I always have. This is not a town
for the young. They awake heavy and
nostalgic in the glare of afternoon. They
meet in familiar backyards. They eat
familiar French fries. I don’t remember
anything, they say, meaning Nothing
felt more right than our hands entwined
while I dozed off in the passenger seat
and moonlight painted the
windshield silver, and they laugh.