she ran

by Roger Bernard Smith

she ran a foam gun in the modular home plant
friday nights we jitterbugged at gleason’s on forest ave
before they converted the asylum into condos
try to tell me you can’t remember it was the champs’ tequila
I danced on what your mother told you not to do
there were gutturals from the booths
a frustration of tool belts without Philips-head screwdrivers
when you needed them most
I’m a farm boy whose pigs were slaughtered
for the brick school lunch line
and you my dear
were a laugh a minute
until you cried