with spare change, I never have
for the meter. Never enough
to get a dorm room next to my son
to hold his keys while I overstay
my unwelcome.
The Super Bowl means nothing
and everything because they have
televisions in Africa where Brady
is a breakfast cereal they do
without. Which is why I had
a chocolate lava cake for dinner
and scraped the plate. It was
the least I could do. And
the most. I grabbed hold of my
son’s Adam’s apple and wrung
out the hair from his chin.
I made the bunk-bed
for him to lie in
during the gap year.
He took the smile we share,
and pulled my shoulder
from it’s socket
to starve the supply of blood to my
right hand, which I was growing
long enough to hold his
across the street lined
with beer bottles and barf.
He packed up the clean sheets
grabbed the keys
and drove away.
Lori Polachek
2017
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