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Thoughts On A Drive To Costco

I'm driving to Costco.
And you're just a pile of bones.
My foot presses on the pedal.
Light comes through the sunroof.
I remember you.

You are just tendons and bone chips under
a Pennsylvania winter.
You used to kiss me
in the basement
19
in love
hazel green eyes
and black leopard tattoo
carefully hidden from parents
on right shoulder blade

I'm driving to buy
paper towels.

You were found five days later
dead
with your dog in the Nevada desert.
My love letter still in your wallet.
Unfolded, re-folded, creased to fabric like soft.

Hair in tufts, baby soft
My last call.
I'll be there..... wait.
But didn't go.

Driving to buy bulk.

Fisherman sweater
Doorway hug.
Twelve cars totaled.
Boarding school
Troubled child
Loves me
I can't fix him.

Driving to buy juice boxes

Your fingers drumming on bar's edge
years later
spotted
There was nothing you could do
she said
He looked, well.
Beautiful? And?
He looked like hell.

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