timmy called: he’s in town now to visit
his folks for thanksgiving. yella’s tonight?
he asks. like there’s anywhere else to be.
what, you don’t want to fish in november?
pansy-ass; what, did the city soft ya up?
eagles don’t fly at night, he laughs. this used
to be an inside joke, but now has lost
its meaning, and I can’t figure it out.
candi’s eighty miles north in a little
nowhere burg with three kids abandoned all
by some dirtbag con name of dirk. she and
timmy used to be the hottest item.
on the phone, she shrieks delight: yeah, baby!
I’ll be there, and I’ll bring all the red paint!
David M Pitchford
18 Nov 2011