I.
My thoughts drift
like the dirty snowbank
facing I-35
dusted by the pale glow
of a milky sun
unable to pierce gray clouds.
On the radio, Bing’s
“I’ll be home for Christmas”
spins saccharine webs
while my rental car’s
blower motor
rattles and whines.
I fled from this town
twenty-five years ago
without a single memory
worth unwrapping,
only dragged back
for the occasional funeral.
II.
This sleepy crossroads died
long before
the A+P shut down,
reducing the strip mall
to nothing more
than a pockmarked parking lot.
I have no idea why they plow
the broken pavement
where me and Jenny McCarthy
made out,
our teenage tryst
fogging both windows.
Through the grapevine I heard
she married a cop two years
removed from high school,
who three kids later
ran off with a stripper
half her age —
another love light
extinguished
as make-believe dreams
fade beneath
the harsh abrasive
of cold reality.
