I recently went back to AJ’s
and bought two Charleston Chews,
a bottle of Moxie,
and a pack of Werther’s Originals.
You and I used to split our money
to buy that stuff, every time, the same thing.
Now, I’m sitting in the cemetery
by myself, in front of the faded
plastic flowers that we left for the
dead baby.
Miss Mary Mack echoes in my head, and
I take another sip of Moxie.

The wet copy of Charlotte’s Web is still stuck
to the floor of our clubhouse.
Nobody has been inside for five years.
All the sweat from that summer
drowned at the bottom of the mill pond,
along with our fish hooks.
Leeches stuck to our feet.
We hid in your crumbling house,
barely standing, we wrote our names
on the walls and read each other
Goosebumps.

I grew up with art and literacy.
You grew up with tubes in your stomach,
unstable families, the inability to shake off
the sadness.
A backup supply in your pocket,
in case of emergencies.
In and out, back and forth,
Sleeping bags and clammy
hospital sheets.