Radio stitches

Standard

Making stitches,
needling like the sting in my face
when the frisbee hit it on the Great Lawn,
surrounded by giggles and little swimming stars.
I want to reach through the fabric,
ripple it
with my stitches, giggles,
make waves like that piece of pain
running from my ankle to my ass.

It’s OK because when I breathe
it touches you across radio waves hijacked.
In here we can pretend that it’s OK
to feel grass between toes,
make every chant funnier
by ending it with “in my pants.”

I don’t want the view from above.
Down here we can fling raisins,
origins unknown,
into garbage cans and we can
make popsicle pirates in the park
spread eagle, defenses down and out
with the wind of my breath on your radio waves.

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Cupcakes

Standard

Ticket on a windshield, Ohio on Stanton Street. My name
in the newspaper, wandering thoughts passing by like the guy
with the geri curl and his arm around his tapered-legged pants
girlfriend, now or two decades ago. Sixteen years ago,

there were riots here, carving out names scratched into
film, now ten days till my birthday, I am reminded:
I wasn’t there. Trying to keep up in green track pants I
don’t remember liking, I want to bring cupcakes to school,

except school isn’t a building anymore. A musty, sweet
nap on a couch in the back room is summer vacation, I owe
everyone everything. An ex-boyfriend skirts down Essex.
To be expected, I got banned from dating on Ludlow centuries ago.