Hey Girl

Hey Girl is going to rehab

the bright purple and blue and yellow bruises on her body

telling her a story, most of which she cannot recall

of places she’s been, people she’s met, and sidewalks

upon which she has fallen.

Hey Girl has been kicked out of virtually every bar on Lark Street

and North Pearl, and Broadway

others too

streets and avenues in cities and towns she tells me about

while cracking jokes and leaving out details.

Hey Girl reads a letter to me

while we do shots of Captain Morgan sitting cross-legged

on her living room floor, the pages of a notebook frayed and wrinkled from

being held too long in the fist.

She flips thru the pages of a family photo album

telling stories she can remember of

a pile of bright orange and yellow and red leaves

an old floral sofa, upholstered

a pair of raggedy old dogs

a mother, a father

a pair of sisters.

Hey Girl almost always wears a hat

her long dark braids resting on her shoulders.

with blue blue eyes and a pretty smile that disarms the universe.

Hey Girl walks really really fast

sprints ahead of me

leaving behind her a lovely trail of dust

i call out her name but do not chase her.

Hey Girl will be gone for twenty-eight days

she leaves behind a small studio apartment

a purple tapestry smelling of Mary Jane or Patchouli

and a collection of empty wine bottles and beer cans waiting to be recycled.

Hey Girl is twenty-one she texts me each and every day

Hey girl, how are you? to which i reply

hey girl i’m good

how are you?

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