Where Dreams Come True
The bathroom attendant asks me when
my shift begins. In my silver dress, I look
like a shake dancer. Soon, I tell her, giving
her a dollar for the peppermint she offers me.
I look for my friends, the sounds of the casino,
of luck and loss, surround me. I spot a dwarf
wearing a beret adorned with glitter riding
a scooter. He wheels toward me and yells,
“What are you looking at?” I tell him I’m
waiting for my shift to start, and he softens.
“First day?” he asks. I nod. “Shake it like you
mean it,” he says, rolling away to put quarters
in the Count Chocula slot machine. I find my
friends at the bar ordering expensive cocktails
that appear as if they are on fire, smoke from dry
ice enveloping them until you’re left with vodka
and fruit juice. I take a sip, thinking about how
I could get the same thing for half the price down
the street but I’m not paying for the drink. You
never pay for just the drink.
Take A Number
It’s September, and I’m thinking
about every office job I’ve ever
held, about the feeling of three
o’clock on any random Wednesday
afternoon, the feeling of my life
leeching away with the light. I’m
thinking of nights when the choice
is between frozen pizza and leftovers,
of the multi-packs of chips in which
only the bland ones remain, of waiting
at the DMV, of football games blaring
in the background on any given Sunday,
of bills to pay and errands to run. When I
die, I will miss it all. It’s September.
Don’t Be A Stranger
There is nothing to see here,
just memories that aren’t yours,
and days you will never get back,
and the sense you will never escape
yourself, and I remember a girl
in my old neighborhood who shared
my name. The adults said she was
touched, a little slow. That summer,
the Bicentennial, everyone adorned
themselves with flags. Bruce Jenner
won the Decathlon, and women talked
in hushed tones about rumors of affairs,
of husbands who beat their wives.
The world was still a mystery, as was
the day the father of the sweet little
girl who shared my name came home
from repairing air-conditioning units
and shot her and her mother before
killing himself. The house where I grew
up remains the same, iron bars covering
the windows, still protecting everyone
in the house from everything but themselves.
Michelle Brooks has published a collection of poetry, Make Yourself Small, (Backwaters Press), and a novella, Dead Girl, Live Boy, (Storylandia Press). Her poetry collection, Pretty in A Hard Way, will be published by Finishing Line Press in 2019. A native Texan, she has spent much of her adult life in Detroit.