SOON

A young kid in his mother’s
basement makes plans. Soon

he will ask Heather out. He
will lean against his locker

and play it cool. What’d
you do this weekend? Me neither.

He carves another hash mark
into an old desk with a

blown-out pen he used
to write love letters he never

sent. Soon he will stop
throwing up after D-period.

His friends will not hook
their camera up to the class

TV, press play, and wink at him.
His latest dare not broadcasted,

so he won’t have to stand in front of the
screen to block it, point a finger at them,

and swear. Then he won’t
rush to the bathroom to scrape

what’s left inside, out. Soon.
Soon he will tell his mother. Cages

have to feel more comfortable
than his head. Tell her he’s rehearsed

daily interactions more than
Broadway actors. Still he can’t

get them right. A black marker
is black. It has a dark cap

and a white base. It writes
in straight lines if the writer

can stop fucking shaking.
Soon he will tell his mother

that he’s seen the school counselor
and that describing things in as

much detail as possible is a coping
mechanism to still the everlasting

seizure of anxiety. Heathers’ lips
are thin. Dark red. Almost perfect

lipstick. Brown hair that she obviously
straightened this morning falling

beside her pale green eyes. She blinks
longer than a standard blink. She sighs.

Her chest expanding tight against her
shirt. The way her mouth forms “No”

reminds him of that rip in his bike tire
two summers ago. He remembers

picking that rock up from the ground
and aiming it at the shrinking image

of his friends who kept
on riding without him.

__

David Walker is a husband, father, and teacher. He holds an MFA in Poetry from Southern Connecticut State University and his work most recently appears in Thistle, Poetry Breakfast, After the Pause, and Poets Reading the News. He is also the founding editor for Golden Walkman Magazine.