Thirty-eight cents
I found thirty-eight cents in your purse today.
When 1999 was brand new.
Grocery and department stores now
defunct; unspent,
your library card remains
unused; pristine.
I want to check out the books you've read,
learn more about the parting soul.
University of Penn contact cards, too;
I should call to see if they still
practice transplanting livers.
I know the surgeon is dead by now.
Lipstick, Winterfresh gum, mascara,
calculator, peach pralines, pictures.
Many pictures,
of me and others,
but mostly me.
Tissue with your germ,
how I blow my nose and dry my eyes
with(out) you here.
With(in) me.
When 1999 was brand new.
Grocery and department stores now
defunct; unspent,
your library card remains
unused; pristine.
I want to check out the books you've read,
learn more about the parting soul.
University of Penn contact cards, too;
I should call to see if they still
practice transplanting livers.
I know the surgeon is dead by now.
Lipstick, Winterfresh gum, mascara,
calculator, peach pralines, pictures.
Many pictures,
of me and others,
but mostly me.
Tissue with your germ,
how I blow my nose and dry my eyes
with(out) you here.
With(in) me.
Josh Dale holds a BA in English from Temple University and has been previously published in 48th Street Press, April Gloaming Publishing, Black Elephant Literary Magazine, Huffington Post, The Scarlet Leaf Review, Your One Phone Call, and others. If he’s not petting his rescue Bengal, Daisy, he is perfecting his stir-fry recipe, hunched over in the dark like an alchemist. He is the founder and current editor-in-chief of Thirty West Publishing House and Tilde: A Literary Journal. Both pieces are dedicated to his mother.
