At the Campground for Addicts
They meet at the Big Rig site. Begging
for hookups. They are both named Robin.
He is wearing a sweater that’s all arms.
She dribbles coffee and calls it perfume.
They play miniature golf using only their fingers.
Then, horseshoes on the hopscotch court.
They have agreed to go cold turkey on one
night stands. Besides, it would never work.
She likes shopping. He likes sugar. They take
turns on the pedal boat. Near the camp store
they steal some Wi-Fi. Spend all night fucking
up Wikipedia pages. When the sun rises
they shake hands near the sign that says
One of Our Sites Is Bound to Take Your Fancy.
He disappears into his 1950’s fire truck.
She turns into a woman from another century.
Only a few months
off the sympathy dole,
I’m no longer the dying
child, bald on a ward.
My grief turned into the lost
year, the long afternoons
stuck reading the same
sentence with still no sense
to be made of the jumble
of letters, and who made
letters anyway, how did
anyone curl them like tiny
hairs onto scraps of paper.
Now sadness is a sneeze.
It arrives during the punch line,
or when my mouth is full
of wishes. I’m wearing the joyful
face you’ve been wanting to see.
But then that tickle.