In hindsight, I shouldn’t have taken the Nerds

or the “what’s your favorite color”

in the clawed-through pocket of my backpack

and spilled them on the kitchen counter,

binoculars out, waiting for an image to

appear on the oil-spill stovetop.

I could have gone South: I’d be smiling

Roy Rogers chicken down my cheek–

whirring Daytona, crop tops in the bin,

Busch Apple baptism getting me giddy.

But I perched on our table as Westchester sun

barricaded my vision and burned the edges

of my Brandy t-shirt transparent. Budweiser

untouched behind Mike’s Hards, the blank page

snarled back at me, “How are you so bad

at letting go?”