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
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?