We didn’t know the records
were worthless, though I suspected
the junk dealer of gouging
and importing illegal goods
between the strands of
his red beaded curtain.
We kept their purchase price
to ourselves, treasured,
and listened late nights between
the sound of the train rushing
past the window and the
next door neighbor’s large dog
howling profanity at the moon.
Late afternoons, we ate popsicles
and considered deep quandaries,
the lyrics of Everything Zen,
how to get to New York from Dallas
on dimes and sock lint.
I’d already sold off my bracelets by weight
to the pawn shop on the other side of town,
so we hawked old band equipment, microphones
no longer breathing, for fuel and pixie sticks.
The dream grew tentacles so quickly,
though you never made it past Ring Pops
and tall drinks, peanut shells escaping on the floor.
I did, but I was happier before,
in the sunshine, sweet purple juice dying my teeth
like a sugar skull, bones at rest in a drying sea.