By Kristy Webster
We go walking at night naming trees
after relatives who died when we were little
till you name one Johnny Cash which infuriates me
because I thought we were being true and I yell,
You liar! You put out your cigarette
on Johnny’s belly, and I expect
the branches to slap your stupid face.
I stalk you kindly, just a little bit after we break
up and you catch me one night at the bowling
alley, my disguise is a pair of glasses too big
for my face, but you say you could tell
by my posture, you’re not mad you say but, can I
really prove you’re no relation to the Man in Black?
We take up walking again, this time we stick
to the grey, tall buildings, and you tell me:
It’s over still you know, even though your arm
is wrapped around my shoulder and I say,
sure it is, and when we get to the first stop light
I say how I think there should be blue lights too.
One morning I’m driving to the library and
you’re crossing the sidewalk with a new girl
who’s eating string cheese, I can’t believe you
would date a girl like that, you throw up two
digits, and that’s when the buildings fold
over and I hear the pavement moan.
I’ve seen better things than you and still,
I get quiet when I hear someone mention your
name, I think about those trees and the soup
I let sit for days on my counter because it
was the last good thing you ever touched.
Copyright Webster 2015