I never learned who it was, just as I couldn’t say
where those empty Funyun bags & beer bottles
came from in the park I walk past, homebound.
Some one—I can’t remember who—developed
a system for rating chips & pretzels.
Funyuns didn’t make the list. Ditto pork rinds,
though thousands must eat both everyday.
I had a lover once who loved those snacks
that left her fingers red with dust, how
she stained my skin that color some days
when she touched me the right way, & who
was susceptible to sudden & inexplicable fits
of depression until one day she left & left
for good, leaving only an impression on her pillow,
an empty pill container, & a short note
which told me, politely, to fuck myself
in her sloppy handwriting, her exacting syntax.
Copyright 2022 Gerry LaFemina
Gerry LaFemina believes poetry is the highest art form; believes everyone should rock out with a guitar at least once–even if they can’t play; believes teaching is a calling; believes the New York City subways are beautiful (even if they smell bad); believes in love, bigfoot and other mythic creatures; believes in the power of a good meal, a good night’s sleep, good whiskey, and good friends; believes in top-down driving and fast music; believes laughter is a type of prayer….