What Do You Do When the Pain Is Gone?

At a novelty store in Baltimore, my two best friends

make a beeline for the vibrators while I hold band T-shirts

up to my chest: Led Zeppelin, Talking Heads. They giggle,

You're adorable, innocent, like a child. It's funny––I never

thought I'd live to be this old. Years ago, I gazed

out my bedroom window while the sun concaved

like a porcelain dish. I remember a woman in a Jetta

screaming along to Prince, a paper-wrapped churro in her left hand,

cinnamon sand on her chapped, droopy lips. Sometimes I dreamt of her,

thumb-sized, clad in a red flannel nightgown, leaping from the bridge

of her husband's shoulders. I felt blessed to witness it.

Sometimes I miss it, even. Miss what, I'm not sure.