And she’s all like, Teeth, Teeth Tuesdays, and here we go.
And I don’t know what she means most times,
but I’m not sure I’m made to.

Ice cream hands and short,
short skirts and all that.
Know what I mean? Know what I’m saying?

She had this walkman and we’d listen together.
Loud and static and lemonade grass stains.
The sun was always setting,

always, always setting.

Can you smell the air? Fresh.
Or as close as you can get.
A real hard try, anyway.

Pavement and pocket change.
Corner store sugar candy. Sugar,
on the outside and the inside.

Teeth, Teeth Tuesdays, and here we go.
She hurt me but didn’t mean to, didn’t mean to.
I don’t think.


He’s struggling with the postage stamp math.
A 25 cent stamp will get it to Kitchener
but he doesn’t know what will happen after that.
Do they just throw it out of the truck?

A 5 cent stamp, a 50 cent stamp, a 57 cent stamp
over or under 30 grams, over or under.
Dirty fingers and dirty hands,
dirty pennies and nickels and teeth.

Clinging with a desperation and hope
If he can just figure this out,
if he can add it up, and piece it together
then things will be better and things will make sense.

He’ll have this one thing under his belt,
this one thing that he set out to do, and was successful
and then walked away from, just like regular people do.
Score one for the home team, for the good guys

The lady behind me sighs deeply, and loudly,
causing him to look up at her and I, standing in line
before quickly turning back to the glass counter
to slide around more of his change

Her sigh is deeply humiliating, and disgusts me.
I think she sounds like bubbling deep fryer.
An ugly, stupid, basket of frozen french fries
sliding into a vat of bubbling hot ignorant grease.


We’re outside sitting on the curb with our legs crossed
sharing a sandwich and a can of root beer.
I want to apologize for her, tell him I’m not like her
tell him I’m not a dumb deep fryer, full of bubbling grease.

He doesn’t say anything though, and so neither do I
We just sit in silence, two men sharing a sandwich
Then I swallow some root beer, and it goes down the wrong pipe
and I cough a lot.


She’s talking to me on the telephone
which I hate doing, but she insists.

She is crying or eating marshmallows,
and her voice sounds like packed down snow.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” She is saying.
She’s talking about her boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend

I lose track of his prefix status daily
and it’s direct relation to the given situation.

I am sitting in my kitchen, in my underwear
the microwave clock is trying on 1:37 am, it fits.

My elbow rests on the table with my head in my hands
I am watching the cat eat tiny, brown and orange X’s and O’s,

Only occasionally looking up at me with a look
that might say, “You want some?”, I do not.

“We’ve been together so long I forget what it’s like,
to be single, you know what I mean?” I do not know what she means.

I lie down on the tile and let the cold sting
come on strong then slowly subside.

I stare at my cat from a new, much shorter distance,
watching cats eat close up is kind of disgusting.

“I just don’t know what I’m going to do,
I just don’t know how I’ll go on with my life.”

Crying, marshmallow, marshmallow, packed down snow,
Tiny orange X, tiny brown O, purr, grumble, swallow.

“Thank you so much for listening to me,
I think I need to call him, to straighten this all out.”

Marshmallows, packed down snow, brown X’s
cold kitchen tiles, 1:49, dial tone.