These Thoughts I Lug from Childhood that Prevent Me from Becoming a Juggernaut by Yvonne Amey

Third Base Tavern; a row of quarters along the edge of a pool table;
Cigarette smoke staining my crop and tube tops! 
Latex-blue water tower standing in a cemetery. 
Tannery tang at sunrise.
Cake walks and Aunt Patsy's Klonopin addiction.
Neighbor Jim, the unemployed whistle blower finding me on Facebook.
All roads dubbed for Union generals: Buford, Burnside, Sheridan, etc., etc.
Infant boy drowning in pool one bright, horrible summer.
Lil Mike's innocent kisses at parties and his blossoming pedophilia.
Ghosts, God, guns, and wind.
All nights are frigid in Maryland and feel like a truck stop.
Bestie, Tyler, moving to China; his morning emails reporting back to mainland (me) 
on all the friends we grew up with who are now in prison. 
A functional bridge into West Virginia, more funeral homes than dead people.

Yvonne Amey’s poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in Tin House, The Florida Review, Hobart, Pleiades, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Queenmob's Tea House and elsewhere. She is an MFA graduate from Central Florida.

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