Issue No. 20 | Spring 2019
Bridgeport Again
After Randall Mann
At the Subway sandwich shop
edge of Route 31
I watch my teen self flirt
with an even younger boy
selling him ice cream
and french fries,
touching his hand,
taking his money.
I see her, hardworking and alone,
grateful that someone
recognizes her bravado.
Weakness. All women.
I weep my confession
and because she couldn’t
see it coming, I excuse her
the tight jeans, dangling fish-lure
earrings, the curling iron.
She, I, must have been
nineteen: all boys were fair
game then—
keg beer at the boat launch party
despair of music videos
and FM radio.
How did I
even learn how to love
after the 1980s?
Flatlander, outsider,
milkweed pods bursting,
I forgive her.