Shall I go steal quarters from the fountain?

Shall I go steal quarters from the fountain?
I will sell my clothes,
I will walk five miles,
searching in cracks of concrete for coins
on the side of the road
to see you again.

Old Poetry

Yoe, Pennsylvania

When we were eighteen,

the abandoned cigar factory in the village of Yoe

proved worthy of a Wednesday night’s entertainment

so we drove three loud cars into the back parking lot

of a building that time had forgotten

as the market shifted

from smoking rooms to radio rooms

to TV rooms in what seemed

like a few months time.

We went in, through a broken glass door on the side

that had been hastily boarded up

and warned NO TRESPASSING and no one cared.

Inside, things creaked and wires hung from the ceiling

and the only light came from our flickering dim flashlights

and the full moon outside.

There were puddles of oil on the floor,

and shredded newspapers reading 1954.

While Deddick and Dengy and Dyl

started throwing around boxes

and climbing paper bale mountains,

I envisioned cops with tasers breaking down

the door with the smashed window

and hauling us off to jail.

While you could have persuaded me otherwise,

or told me to relax and quit being so paranoid,

you said we could go outside if it would ease my mind,

so we stood guard by the door

and for once we were alone

in the bright moonlight of Yoe.

You stood with your back against the weed woods

and I with my back against the cinderblock building.

I said are you scared? and you replied no

even though it was nearing Halloween.

You wanted to kiss me,

I could see it in your eyes.

But being eighteen was hard

and we stood there like eighth graders

at a junior high dance,

arms folded awkwardly, looking down,

and then into each other’s eyes,

talking about adventure,

and calculus,

and what it might feel like to be in each other’s arms.

Hail Mary

Byzantine

Gold and copper etchings

On a blistered wood panel

Hail Mary, full of grace

On Breaking Bones

On Breaking Bones

In the style of Jeffrey Harrison

The day Danielle drowned,

I whipped Bobby with my swim cap

on the bleachers before practice.

He whipped back at me, laughing,

and chasing me up and down the slippery pool deck.

3 o’ clock! Everyone line up.

55 high school swimmers hopped in the water

like any normal Tuesday, feet first! (as always)

and swam the normal 500 yard warm-up.

It was somewhere in the second set

that normal left the building.

In lane three, me and Z stopped for a drink

when we realized everyone else had stopped as well.

There were whispers. And shouts.

Lane one! Look in lane one!

Our coach was in the water, trousers blown up

like a parachute, dress shirt soaked

like a wet t-shirt contest in Rio.

He was holding a girl. Dragging her onto the deck.

It was Danielle. My childhood friend.

And she wasn’t breathing.

Coach didn’t hesitate with CPR.

They were soaking wet, he was drenched in sweat.

We all stared as he thrust his strength into her body.

Someone called the ambulance.

They didn’t come for another seven minutes.

Coach didn’t stop for even a second,

pouring sweat onto her bare skin.

He broke her ribs. We heard them crack.

He was crying.

He couldn’t save her.

All Women Are the Same

  
   You're damn right they are.