Seventy-Five Bucks

(really this is a shitty poem, I think I’m just journaling poetry to sort shit out)

I hocked your ring this morning.

I couldn’t wait to watch it pass from my hands.

I don’t know what I spent the money on–

cigarettes, gas, magazines to study;

anything to keep my mind busy.

I’ve read four novels and written

umptine poems since you left.

Between paragraphs I say

‘fuck you’ and other such things

and I drive around a lot listening

to Adele, crying.  Me.  I’m that woman.

When my plan was to be on the other side of this–

I was to find someone first, and tell you gently

that I’m sorry but I’m happy and there’s

nothing I can do.

Your texts contain ridiculous, uncharacteristic

exclamation points–from the guy who never laughs

in hysterics like our daughter and I do.

the ‘i’m sorry you feel that way’ only makes me feel

so much farther behind.

When I entered the pawn shop I liked how dirty

and dusty and abandoned it was, I liked

handing over my ring without flinching,

handing over that diamond queen that

glittered like snow, the most beautiful

thing I owned, remember how I cried

the moment you got down on your knee

reciting the poem you wrote asking me to marry you–

you invited my family and my grandpa out

to our house, you must’ve been so nervous;

I couldn’t stop crying.  I didn’t know until then

just how much I loved you.

I didn’t even barter–it was a quick sell.

Did I leave feeling emptier? Sad?

I don’t even know anymore,

I just left, another part of my life

bought and sold, gone, over.

8 thoughts on “Seventy-Five Bucks

  1. You, are mistaken, m’dear. This is what poetry is about. It is raw emotion on a stick, to be looked at by the reader, who will say, “Yes, I know what she means.” Not everyone will say the same thing, not everyone will see the scene play out in thier mind like a movie. Some will see it in black and white, others in living color. But make no mistake; this IS poetry, and it is good.
    So there!

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  2. Yeah, a pawnshop is the earthly equivalent of what Yeats called “the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.” It’s like the trash pile of belongings by the side of the road of someone evicted from their rented trailer, headed further down the road to some greater nothingness — the homeless city, jail or the grave. So hard to come by, so easily lost. Why dress up words for that? The naked truth suffices.

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  3. Not shitty at all. This is how I start most of what I write, it feels so good to get it all down. The honesty of letting the words flow freely makes it appealing and easy to connect with. Love the release of it, Amy.

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