by Patrick Fiorilli
Artwork, “5 of Hearts” by Alexa Gaffaney
If I remember it correctly,
You were sitting
On the pink brick
Sidewalk in Connecticut,
Wearing a green jacket,
And a pair of faded jeans
That rolled up just enough
To show the tops
Of inky sneakers.
Your head was fallen
Over into arms
That rested limp
On bended knees.
You were as still
As the policemen
Who surrounded you.
You didn’t look dead.
You looked tired.
You deserve to know
I used your circumstance,
Or at least
My recollection,
As the basis
For a story, once.
I submitted it
To a contest.
It won
An honorary mention.
I had to modify
Some things,
Of course,
Like the city,
To lower all the buildings.
And the time of day,
To shift the shadows
Where I wanted them.
And I had to adjust
The direction
You were facing,
So as you died
You would have seen
The sun ascend above
My fictive rooftops.
It made the ending
More poetic.
But you didn’t look poetic
When I saw you
From the backseat
Of my parents’ passing car.
You just looked tired.
All the poetry came later.
All the poetry was made up.
The poetry always comes later.
The poetry is always made up.
I’ve come to realize
That’s the reason people like it.