By: Nathan Childers
One handcuff’s length apart, a silver
Dollar, a bus ticket to the
Other side of the city, a plastic
Cardinal from a candy machine at the
Entrance of the diner.
A lockbox of gum wrappers and a paisley
Tin that used to hold cherries, but now holds
Dead wildflowers from the Shenandoah.
Pristiq and Vyvanse in child-proof bottles.
Socks with holes and apologies with holes,
Trinkets kept safe with me when I cross
State boundaries and a cross around your
Neck when you sleep in basements.
I wish I wasn’t a vacuum to you.
I hope you get to be happy sometimes.
Some nights I wish I believed in God
And that plane tickets were cheaper or
You told your mom you loved me.