My thoughts run empty
like the abandoned
shopping cart 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”
croons falsetto dreams
while my rental’s blower motor
fails to push enough heat
to stop my shivering.
I ran from this two-bit town
twenty-five years ago
without a single reminiscence
worth unwrapping,
only dragged back
for the next funeral.
But this sleepy crossroads died
long before the A+P closed down,
reducing the only strip mall
to nothing more
than a derelict parking lot
littered with potholes.
I have no idea why they plow
the broken pavement
where I made out
with Jenny McCarthy in tenth grade,
our awkward passion
steaming both windows.
Through the grapevine
I heard she married a Cop
two years after high school —
until three kids later
he ran off with a stripper
half her age,
another happily-ever-after
flushed down the drain
as make-believe wishes melt
beneath the harsh
Klieg light reality
of getting older.
