Green Water and Ice Cream

Poetry

Photo by author

That gentrified place
selling wares of
10$ ice cream cones
to tourists down the street
is an affront to
an impoverished
past of
one cat
boyfriends
and shelves
of unread
textbooks
teaching nothing
about
cupcake bandaids
stolen along
a memory of
menthol cigarettes
and your mother’s
crooked hands
and grapefruit vodka.
You no longer
live where
your driving license
has expired.
Discarded like
everything for
pots of tea
and money-grubbing.
I have been
wrong about much.
Not this.

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