Whatever street

November 1, 2007
By Rachel Rodgers, Pittsburgh, PA

Your eyes are all green
and big like those marble necklaces
we looked at in Maryland, at the store with the bubble wand
out front. Together we blew bubbles,
big like your eyes, through the streets
even though I was still mad at you.

I don’t always notice the size of your eyes, just sometimes;
when I’m talking and you’re just nodding
to some kind of whacked out rhythm,
the rhythm of my speech
patterns. See, it’s as you’re nodding
that I notice the freckles
splattered across your nose like graffiti.

The veggie boy
gave us a new appreciation for graffiti.
The way stolen spray-paint
colors flash across office buildings.
Catalina mist is his favorite.
He pointed it out in the alley
once, (the alley we walk through).
His sweater matched. Actually,
it was el sueter de mi hermana.

We cross the street,
the DON’T WALK sign blinking
like drowsy eyelids. We’re at the bus
stop. I don’t know street names.
I should learn some street names.
Frank O’Hara knew
some street names.

But I guess sometimes, it’s all right
to have no sense of direction
‘cause all that mattes is that I follow
the timeline of this friendship

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