interstate twenty-five

I used to save my checks from that first job.
Mainly, because I liked the idea:
everything at once, and
nothing for months, as
cheap tuna casserole
over, and
bought my books
in its tedious way.

Be still, my credit score.
Admittedly shit.
And I sat in “your” car.
Daddy’s little car.
Because, he ran over a deer with yours.
The aggravating lick of young casualties.

Hell, I’m too tired to argue
over speculative propriety.
So, you squeezed my fingers.
Scabbed, leadless pencils.
Whispered, two weeks.

I’ll find my brain and use it
in two patient weeks.


6 thoughts on “interstate twenty-five

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