A Certain Kind of Debt

You warned me about striving.

You said once they gave you a house

with waves of peppermint in the backyard,

the Library of Babylon, and free lunch,

they would take it away. Still, I ate

the fake meat they served on Fridays,

always alone with my petite jar of grief.

I liked the jar because it gave me something

to look forward to. The truth is uncomfortable—

now that’s something I told you.

I told you other things too—that we would

end up down south again in that city

of tarot card readers, storms, and gin.

In the summer, it’s terror for people

who can’t take it. But we can.

We were never really going to get away.