Gatorade
My empty fridge
filled with Heinz catsup bottles
followed by lemon lime Gatorade.
The kind Shelley and I used to drink out of Dixie cups
next to our Goldfish crackers
back at Village Preschool
before she shook her Chicago accent.
The kind that we used to mix with vodka
on the top step of Los Gatos High School’s bleachers
as anorexic track stars ran around us
silently judging us
not for breaking the law
but for not being them.
by Sarah Destin.
Twitter: @sarahdestin
Editor’s Note: This poem calls to mind the modern imagist poems of the early twentieth century with a focus on precise detail. The last two lines bring into play a personal narrative that ties the images into a broader emotional framework.
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