“You know” – sixpack rattle ending,
doublehood covering most of her face,
the wheelchair’s rubber turning over the sidewalk
and carrying her closer to the cars
that wet my jeans with puddle water
and gave us a louder silence to break –
“I don’t like it here anymore.”
Smoke lungs shaking asking mine
(and they obliged) to shake too –
“It was nice for a couple”
– or “a few” – “months,” I said.
Red hand – we stared ahead at it
(or I stared ahead at it)
– telling us we still had to talk.
“No wonder” – wheels turning –
“I drink beer every day.
You have to around here.”