There’s something, he said, about the way
she loves me then doesn’t. She’s a cold,
beautiful city that I’ve only seen on posters.
I laughed and said, And I thought I was
the poet. He smiled, the kind of smile
a doctor offers you before a terminal diagnosis.
You’ve never been in love with someone
who doesn’t love you. I shake my head, try
to sympathize. But nothing is ever enough,
and we both agree, that’s the problem. We’re too old
for this shit, he adds, wondering if he should call
her. I tell him that nobody calls anyone these days.
It’s all text. Is it late enough for a drink? he asks.
I say what I always do, Where’s the harm? It’s
always late enough. Maybe it just seems like it
should be late enough somewhere, anywhere.

# # #

Michelle Brooks’ work has been published or is forthcoming in Threepenny Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Iowa Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Natural Bridge, and elsewhere. Her poetry collection, Make Yourself Small, was published by Backwaters Press, and her novella, Dead Girl, Live Boy, was published by Storylandia Press.

Photo credit: Larry Thacker   www.larrydthacker.com