poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Wednesday, April 23, 2008

On Line at the Fair

Someone’s dad would SUV us to the feast of saint something-or-other
on the YMCA baseball diamond park and we’d all say thank you
and hop out and pull down
our cropped tops and pull up
on the belt-loops of our low-slung jeans with our thumbs
and remember to remember our purses and fluff out our car-hair.
We got online for tickets, as soon as we saw the top
of the dad-mobile pull onto the street in line
with the other tired parents going home to
a wife and a movie with the cell phone glowing on the table next to them
(knowing they’d get a call before 11 begging
for one or two more good hours, and they would have to say
no, I’m on my way to pick you up now)
we’d light up our cigarettes as soon as we were sure he couldn’t see us.
It felt like we couldn’t breathe until we were smoking and coughing and
cool in the dim parking lot streetlights. Waiting on line
for our lives to start, waiting for something to do with sex,
and for drugs better then cigarettes. Everything was preparation
for a few moments of carnival-ride excitement
reality was waiting in line, adjusting our clothes and coughing.

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