Minooka, IL
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​
I.
​
Maise, you and I sit, backs
against the only vending
machine in Minooka
as you tip tap the toes
of your unlaced sneakers.
​
It’s sold out and rusty, only
two Bazooka bubble-gum
packs, browned, twenty years
old, they hang from the spindles
like dead leaves on a corn crop.
​
where do the trains go
Chicago I think
I want to go
there are so many people there
​
so
it means stinking onion
so
it smells
so I like people and I like onions
You’re counting the dented rail cars
and I’m not. Instead, I feel the sun
warmed skin of your arm to mine
and the rolled up cuff of your faded
hand-me-down t-shirt.
​
I glance at your hair as it falls just
short of the stitching on the shoulder,
hair the color of amber kernels,
green eyes like weeds below a
shallow still lake.
​
You smile and throw a rock
across the gravel and it skips
twice before landing in the
low grass near the tracks and
you’ve lost count—
interstate's goin' up
lot’s ah cars, lot’s ah people
The old man we call Ox
steps out of the gas station
just in time to tell us, that’s
the last train Minooka will
ever feel
​
II.
​
We stand, waving, waddling
like two ducks with their
wings half-spread
chased by a kid with a stick.
​
We’re balancing on the same
rail, trying to keep balance,
poking each other, you say,
aren’t we a little too old for this
​
HONK!
​
You fall off the rail and look
at the sleek red car pulled up
to the pump and you smile
and wave and skip over and
I keep my balance, watch you
woo in the window with the
oily seniors until they pop
open doors to let you in.
​
III.
The train tacks have faded into
green, overgrown with dense
weeds that brush like shoulders.
you work here now
trying to pay for college
I’m watching him bang against
the machine with three fists,
it’s not even the gum that he’s
after just the banging.
Your hand drifts through his
hair and you chance a look
at me, your boyish friend,
faded out of Maise’s life.
V.
It’s Chicago in winter and
my back is turned against
the cold snow, below amber
steel street lamps—
I catch the smell of a caramel
popcorn shop, the glass
barrel door turning in and
out all the charcoal coats
of the lives I guess at, see
​
I’m overwhelmed by people.
How I can never know them all
deeply. I’m limited. Limited to
one, or two. I’ve lost count.
Still, the cars are weaving
through the street, dancing
technicolor waves—
Suddenly, an old woman’s coat
brushes mine, I say,
excuse me
Only, she’s lost in the crowd ahead
and I’m lost behind.