by Bill Yarrow
I hadn't seen her since Carter was
President. Everything about her had
turned white, even her beauty marks.
I faced her strangeness and fumbled
for the past. The time we went crabbing
on the Chesapeake. Her imitation of
Barbara Mandrell. Playing lawn darts
at my Mom's. I tried to talk, but only
whispers slithered out. She pretended
to understand what I was saying,
then said, “Wasn't it fungible to have
run across each other?” Fungible? I
questioned. She slapped me—hard.
Then her perfume returned—with a vengeance.
All rights reserved.
This poem appeared in Camroc Press Review.
Thank you, Barry Basden!
This poem also appears in my chapbook FOURTEEN (Naked Mannekin, 2011).
The poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).
Sam of Ten Thousand Things: